


A Warmer Hearth

by Kylenne



Series: Torn From the Heavens: A Warden Reborn [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Black Female Character, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Female Protagonist, Fish out of Water, Gisele Surana (OC), Mild Kink, Other, Past Relationship(s), Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylenne/pseuds/Kylenne
Summary: Gisele Surana thought she’d put the pain of her tumultuous Grey Warden past in Thedas behind her, once she was reborn to the land of Eorzea, and won fame as its Warrior of Light. But then, she was exiled from the only city she’d called home in this strange land, once more a fugitive falsely accused of regicide. With nowhere else to turn, Gisele and her friends fled to the endless winter of Coerthas, and it was there she found even more than sanctuary.
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: Torn From the Heavens: A Warden Reborn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591174
Comments: 35
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

Fate, it would seem, was naught but a circle. 

One might find it strange that such a foreboding place as Camp Dragonhead, stood within the harsh and frozen wilderness of Coerthas, should so prove to be a refuge and sanctuary. But it was not so strange to Gisele Surana, having made the acquaintance of its gregarious lord commander, and known him as a friend. Haurchefant’s hearth was as warm and welcoming as it had been some months prior, what seemed a lifetime ago, when Gisele and Alphinaud first met him. Then, like now, the dwindled Scions of the Seventh Dawn found themselves mercifully aided by the Ishgardian knight in the wake of a desperate flight from the deserts of Thanalan, having lost their beloved comrades in a vicious surprise attack. 

As the scholars of ancient Nym once noted, time flows like a river, and history repeats. 

For now, as when first they met, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn—all three of them—were granted a swift audience in Lord Haurchefant’s command chamber, within the encampment’s heart, and spoke of what befell them that terrible night in Ul’dah. Gisele’s heart was heavy as ever, recounting the whole of the sordid, bloody banquet: the poisoned chalice fallen from Nanamo's tiny grasp, Teledji Adeledji's smug triumph as his Brass Blades seized Gisele with accusations of regicide, Ilberd's cruel treachery and brutal duel with Raubahn, and the Scion inner circle’s perilous escape from the palace, one by one purchasing Gisele's escape at the cost of their own. 

Dearest Alphinaud, still numb from the horror and despairing, only spoke once or twice to fill the gaps in the tale, and to name Raubahn's son his liberator, then fell silent. Gisele had never seen the beautiful lad so broken, not even when the Waking Sands were so brutally invaded by the Garleans. And Tataru...poor, sweet Tataru, was no less despairing; she recounted in soft spoken, tear choked words her own escape from Vesper Bay, no less harrowing, after she and F’lhaminn were set upon by treacherous Crystal Braves there at market. Hoary Boulder and his beloved Coultenet protected Minfilia’s mother as best they could, and bid the Scions’ diminutive secretary to flee upon the first ferry which came, separated as they were in the chaos. Twas only the timely intervention of Yugiri which ensured Tataru’s own flight to safety. 

In this, the three Scions were bound in grief and sorrow, the bitterest of siblings. And Gisele dearly wanted to hold them close, to soothe them as a sister might; but she looked down upon the frayed gown she wore, its dusky rose splendor still stained with the blood of her beloved Flame General, and thought against it.

After hearing the tale of their ordeal, Lord Haurchefant quickly and decisively declared in no uncertain terms that they were now under protection of House Fortemps, and set his men to work, offering to Gisele and her weary companions all the hospitality Camp Dragonhead could muster for a trio of weary and heartsick fugitives. Once his chirurgeons determined them hale, they were to freshen, sup, and rest within quarters set aside in the confines of the fortress. 

It was small but well-appointed, the chamber Lord Haurchefant so graciously offered to Gisele. He’d ordered hot baths to be drawn for all of them, and she accepted hers in gratitude, luxuriating deep within steaming water fragrant with oils of rose and lavender. Gisele’s aching limbs and sore muscles were soothed in the heat, and she began to feel somewhat like herself again. Her tattered, bloodstained Ul’dahn finery had been exchanged for far simpler fare, though well-tailored and blessedly warmer. A Miqo’te mercenary in the employ of House Fortemps provided it—the sole woman approaching Gisele’s slightness of stature among such lofty folk as the Ishgardians, who stood towering like willow trees even for Elezen. 

Once thoroughly clean and dry, Gisele slipped on the woolen tunic in gratitude, though she felt a sharp pain in her right shoulder as she lifted it to slide her slender arm through the sleeve; like as not a memento of Ilberd’s manhandling, grabbing her as he did, shoving her to the marble floor of the Sultana’s palace as though she were a sack of popotoes .  Haurchefant’s chirurgeons were meant to see her again in the morning, for that eve she’d put them off only with protests that all she needed was rest. Healers truly made the worst patients, and even she would admit that. Still, it was her heart which bore the brunt of her wounds, and not her body; her conjury and the gentle breath of Eos managed the latter well enough, whilst aboard  _ Enterprise _ . As to those other wounds, those of the spirit...a bath and warm, clean clothing were no panacea, but they were a start. 

Supper was brought to her shortly thereafter: a hearty Ishgardian peasant stew of earthy root vegetables, thick and hot, with tender morsels of well-seasoned chicken swimming in a rich wine sauce. Gisele had not realized the extent of her hunger until the scent reached her, and her stomach tied itself in knots. When it did, it occurred to her then that she hadn’t truly eaten since before the chaos broke out in the Sultana’s palace; the last she supped was at her ill-fated meal with Nanamo. So Gisele devoured Haurchefant’s savory offerings gladly, between sips of full-bodied red wine, and she found it did much to settle her frayed nerves. 

Thus bathed and fed, Gisele sat beside the fireplace, her troubled mind returned to contemplation of the unthinkable. As she had ever since she emerged from the ancient tunnels beneath Ul’dah into the chill of the desert night, driven on by grief and fear by turns, she thought on her boon companions. 

One by one, they had sacrificed themselves; one by one, Gisele watched them choose their fate, choose her own survival over theirs. Yda and Papalymo were the first to stay behind, facing a score of Brass Blades, the gilded portcullis they’d brought down to purchase crucial time for Gisele and the others to flee acting like an accursed wall. It wounded her to see it, her friends so close and yet far beyond her means to aid them. 

Then, fleeing into the tunnels, Gisele was forced to watch as Y’shtola and Thancred followed their example—though Y’shtola meant not less to her by any means, it was the roguish Thancred’s beloved face now which swam before Gisele’s vision, veiled in the tears for him she dared not shed before the whole of Camp Dragonhead. Ever-handsome he was, with that ever-cocky grin flashed back to her a final time; she had to move her feet through sheer force of will, to turn from him and fly down the tunnel. Leaving Y’shtola behind was cruel enough, but Thancred...she could not bear it. Not him, who was the first of the Scions to extend a hand of friendship to Gisele when she knew so little of this strange world, a man who saved her time and again, a man whose passion for pleasure and learning matched her own...she could scarce accept the senseless cruelty of it all, after they had been through so much. Thancred, whom Gisele defied a cruel Ascian’s machinations to save, such was the depth of love she felt for him…Thancred could not be gone.

Yet, he was.

And so was Minfilia.

Gisele’s tears flowed fresh and hard at the thought of the Antecedent: a woman of mercy and compassion to rival her own, the woman who had given a name and meaning to the strange vagaries of fate which brought her to this world, who had given Gisele a new purpose, and wove together the tattered pieces of her memory with a deft and compassionate touch. Minfilia, her friend, lover, and confidant who held her and whispered endearments when memories of another life and another world came flooding back and threatened to drown her in despair...she was gone, too. 

Minfilia was gone, and worse yet, it was Hydaelyn’s own doing.

What in the seven hells did Hydaelyn mean, doing such a thing? For surely it was their mysterious benefactor Herself which caused Minfilia to falter at Gisele’s side, and stay behind to secure her escape. For Gisele, too, felt that Presence wash over the tunnel, a light in the darkness, just before Minfilia bade her to run. Did Minfilia’s life mean so little to Hydaelyn, after she had served so faithfully, and for far longer than Gisele—an interloper at best upon this world? 

Alone among the Scions, Minfilia understood what it meant to bear the Blessing of Light, to bear this burden of service to Hydaelyn’s will. For all her life, since those naive and ignorant times in Thedas when Gisele believed Hydaelyn to be little more than a Spirit of Love come to her from the Fade, she had never questioned the gentle hand placed upon her. Not even when she came to love Loghain Mac Tir despite everything he had done; then, she cursed herself, her own nature, but never that Spirit. Now, she held nothing  _ but _ curses for Her. Never had it felt like shackles to Gisele; not until now. Everyone called it a blessing, this gift, to be so chosen by Hydaelyn. But after so much death and pain in its wake, Gisele bitterly thought this supposed blessing a curse. How could Gisele possibly name it anything else after so much sacrifice, after so much pain? And now, she did not even have it, the Father Wyrm sealing it away, in some further game with Hydaelyn. Gisele had been a pawn from the moment her soul was drawn here, through the Lifestream. She was weary of it.

Would that this accursed being had never intervened, cruelly snatching Gisele from the fate she had chosen for herself, selfishly stealing her away from the choice she made in fear and trembling, in honor and pride and yes, even love, fulfilling the duty Riordan set before her with an anguished cry to drive the blade through Urthemiel’s cursed heart. She did it because she could not bear to watch Alistair or Loghain do it in her stead; she did it because she could not bear to think of Zevran impaled upon a darkspawn blade, or Leliana dragged to the Deep Roads to have Hespith's horrors visited upon her. Gisele lived for her lovers, and ultimately she died for them.

Was it not the purpose to which she was sworn? In Death, Sacrifice, after all. Gisele was a Grey Warden—at last, in the end, she knew what that credo meant, and she seized it with all that she was. She did it for the ones she loved, yes, and for the kingdom she so loved, for the  _ world _ she so loved, and did it gladly. Gisele accepted oblivion to save them all, because she so loved them.

But then Hydaelyn denied her the peace of oblivion, and reached out across the cosmos to bring her to Eorzea \-- a sorceress reborn, for some great and terrible design, to do what none among Eorzea could: to be a Warrior of Light for a new age, after the incalculable losses of Carteneau and the Seventh Umbral Calamity robbed this war-torn world of so many of its heroes. 

Gisele rather bitterly wondered if this meant that she was merely marked to suffer. Such was often the lot of Chosen Ones, no? And Loghain’s words upon that fateful night in Castle Redcliffe came back to her then, from the deepest recesses of memory: that it was easy enough to die for a cause, that some men did it without even knowing. But to live on, bearing the weight of the dead...that was the cruelest measure of pain. He’d known it, having lost his Maric and Rowan.

Gisele understood his sober wisdom at last. And she wondered then, for not the first time that night, if Alistair and the others felt this manner of grief at her own loss, with all the crushing guilt that came of it. For that matter, what hope was there for her, in the enormity of her own grief? Yda and Papalymo, for all their prodigious skill in battle, could not have held so many Blades for long. Thancred and Y’shtola planned to collapse the tunnel, and Minfilia had run to them. Each had made the conscious choice to purchase her safety and freedom—her very life, with no thought of their own. They did as Gisele herself had, a lifetime ago in Thedas; it was the very act which brought her here to Eorzea, all unwitting. 

Was this manner of guilt what those she left behind on another world were feeling, as she wept in a snow-blanketed fortress across the cosmos? Did Alistair turn that fateful battle at Fort Drakon over in his mind, again and again, wondering how he might have saved her, the way she thought on how she should have stopped Minfilia? Did Loghain beg of uncaring gods in anguish why he yet lived, while this woman he loved perished by choice to purchase him a second chance he did not deserve? For hope’s sake, is the answer she would have told him—and what Minfilia would have told  _ her _ . Of a surety, it was what Haurchefant said to Alphinaud, as the lad wept in the intercessory. It was to keep the light of hope alive that they made such a perilous sacrifice, and Gisele and Alphinaud and Tataru must carry that light on. 

But what hope was there for Gisele, in such darkness? She could not see it, for all her mysterious, Echo-blessed visions. 

And Hydaelyn was silent.

Gisele was stirred from her melancholic reverie by a soft rapping at the door to her chamber, and wondered if it were Tataru; that it should be Alphinaud was too much to hope for, still, even though he took Haurchefant’s kind words of encouragement to heart. Gisele knew the young man too well by half now, and knew that he still blamed himself for what had befallen them all. They were dreadfully alike, she and the lad who became a near-brother to her. Gisele knew that it would take more than a few heartfelt words to heal his broken spirit. Like as not, he was brooding just like she was, by his lonesome, in his own quarters elsewhere. 

Gisele quickly wiped her tearstained face with her sleeves, rose from her seat by the fire, and strode across the room to answer the door, fully expecting Tataru to be there, seeking out the comfort of a friend. She hoped it were, even, as soothing Tataru’s fears would take her mind off her own.

The Scions’ diminutive secretary was not, however, on the other side of the door when Gisele opened it. Instead, it was the master of the fortress himself, come to pay her a courtesy call. 

Shed of his ubiquitous mail shirt and arms, instead garbed in a deepest sapphire blue tunic of finely spun wool and dark, sober breeches, Lord Haurchefant Greystone looked less the knight commander and more the noble gentleman. It suited him well, that color, Gisele thought; it brought out his silvery blue eyes. He bore with him an enormous blanket, and wore a gentle smile upon his lips. Warmth crept into Gisele’s chest unbidden at the sight of him. 

“Good evening, Gisele! Pray forgive my intrusion, but I wanted to be certain you were warm enough in this bitter cold,” Haurchefant said cheerfully, holding up the blanket.

Gisele could not help but return his smile. All the bitter recriminations crumbled and were swept away in its wake as so much dust in the Coerthan wind. His simple kindness was like a balm upon her wounded spirit, more than she could have realized. He truly was a light amidst all this darkness, spurring them to hope in the midst of such unbridled despair. 

“Thank you, Haurchefant, but it is no intrusion. To the contrary, your generosity is much appreciated, and your kindness most welcome,” Gisele said. She reached out to take the blanket into her arms, but Haurchefant’s smile grew a bit wider, and with a flourish he let the thick fleece fall in a curtain from his hands, before sweeping it about Gisele’s slender shoulders like a mantle. It was unbelievably soft against her body, and she was enveloped in soothing warmth when she took it from his grasp and tightened it around herself.

“You are most welcome. It shall help thicken that thin Ul’dahn blood of yours—you’ll need it, 'ere you remain in Coerthas,” Haurchefant replied with a wry little grin. “Is there anything else you require, dear lady? Say the word and it shall be done, on my honor.”

Gisele’s faint smile grew a bit wider. “Pray, stay with me a while, my lord? I have been alone some hours, and I mislike having aught but my own grim thoughts for company,” she said, trembling a bit beneath the blanket.

Haurchefant nodded, and crossed the threshold into the small room, following Gisele’s lead to the fireplace; he brought a second chair to place beside hers, and sat with her before the merrily burning flames. “Forgive me, Gisele. It was not my intention to abandon you; I merely thought to grant you time and space to rest—twas what Mistress Tataru and Master Alphinaud required at any rate,” he said apologetically.

“There is nothing to forgive, Haurchefant. Your hospitality is above reproach, and we are blessed beyond measure for it,” Gisele said warmly. 

“A knight lives to serve,” Haurchefant said, with a graceful incline of his head, and a typically affable smile which fair dazzled. 

Gisele felt warmer, then, and it had little to do with the blanket wrapped about her. 

Haurchefant’s smile grew pensive, though. “I only wish I had yet more hospitality to give, though, my dear friend. Alas, that rests upon a great many things beyond my control.”

“You speak of Ishgard?” Gisele asked, and Haurchefant nodded to her. 

“As I said in our audience, the Gates of Judgment stand firmly closed, and have remained so for years. At the best of times, the Holy See is terribly insular and does not suffer foreigners gladly. But now, with our defenses so compromised and Lady Iceheart’s heretics poised to strike again at any moment, it shall be a trial most herculean to spirit you and your comrades safely to the city, despite all you have done to aid us thus far against the Dravanians. Even Ser Aymeric’s word does not carry weight enough to pry open those gates on its own,” Haurchefant replied, sighing, with a frustrated little shake of his head. “Do not fear, though. I have already sent word to Count Edmont himself of all you have recounted this night. House Fortemps does not soon forget her friends, and I mean to remind him of it. If Ishgard proper will not open the door to you, then we shall, at least.”

“Count Edmont rules your house?” Gisele asked, raising her brows. 

“Indeed,” Haurchefant answered; his smile returned then, and Gisele was glad of it. “His Grace is a fair and honorable man, wise and with great influence among the High Houses. He shall give us due counsel, and chart the best course to take. If nothing else he shall stand surety for you, and I assure you that one can have no better ally than Count Edmont de Fortemps.”

Gisele’s mind was already working. “I am grateful, I assure you. However, might it not also be prudent to call upon those allies we might have elsewhere, to lend their voices to our cause? What of House Durendaire? Is it over naive to believe our acts within the Stone Vigil may have swayed Lord Drillemont in our favor?”

“Would that it were that simple, Gisele. But nothing is, where the High Houses of Ishgard are concerned,” Haurchefant said with a wry grin. “Tis true that Lord Drillemont looks upon you and Alphinaud with favor, for slaying Isgebind and providing the opening needed for his men to reclaim the Stone Vigil at long last. But he is a soldier in the main, with a soldier’s sense of pragmatism and soldier’s eyes ever fixed upon the field. Your deeds will mean something to him, adventurer or no. But convincing his lord the Count of House Durendaire to stand surety for an adventurer is another matter entirely. No, Gisele—’tis mine own house to which you must look, and I shall do everything I can to grant you its protection. I swear it.”

Gisele rather expected that was the case, but it still stung her pride to hear it. “Very well. I do not mean to gainsay your council. I have the utmost trust in you. I only wish I did not feel so powerless,” she said, sighing. 

“We shall find a way, you’ll see,” Haurchefant said, placing a reassuring hand upon her blanketed shoulder. “And there is little to be gained in bemoaning that which lies beyond our control. Let us speak of more pleasant things, hmm? Did you find your supper appealing?”

“Oh, it was wonderful!” Gisele answered, smiling. “Though hunger is the best sauce, as the Lominsans say, it stood well upon its own merits. I do believe that was the best stew I’ve ever had.”

Haurchefant beamed at her, his eyes sparkling in delight. “Excellent! I confess it was mine own doing. As a lad, I received instruction from a Lominsan culinarian of some repute, for Count Edmont believes Fortemps men should be well-rounded. 'Tis not often I have the opportunity to use my skill in the service of such a noble pursuit as the comfort of a friend, and it gladdens my heart that you enjoyed it so.”

“I did,” Gisele confessed. She lowered her gaze, staring into the fire, the melancholy washing over her again unbidden, at the thought of the last meal she’d had. “When last I dined, it was with the Sultana, and I…” With a shudder, she wrapped the blanket about herself all the tighter, her lids slowly closing tightly against the sudden pang of grief as she tried to fight back another bout of tears. “…I did not eat much, before…”

Her eyes still shut, she heard rather than saw the shuffle of the chair beside her drawing closer, a muffled skidding of wood across the rug, and felt the heat of Haurchefant’s body blossom beside the woolens with which she was bundled. 

“Only speak of it if you wish to do so, dear lady,” she heard him breathe softly; his rich voice was achingly gentle, and it made Gisele want to weep for its beauty and simple compassion. “I would not press you for the sordid details, if you do not so choose to share them. But though I count myself neither chirurgeon nor any manner of healer, much less one of your prodigious skill, I have learned that some pain can fester like a terrible boil upon one’s spirit. And in giving voice to such pain, mayhap one might lance it, and it might begin to heal. I offer you my ear and my shoulder, if you  _ do  _ so choose. And you may trust by the Fury, upon my honor as a knight of House Fortemps and of Ishgard, that no words which pass between us shall leave this chamber unless you so desire.”

Gisele  _ was _ a healer, this much was true; and she knew that he was right. She opened her eyes then, encouraged by his words and the quiet strength of his presence, and stared into the dancing flames before them. “Nanamo is—was a woman I grew to admire so, for her courage and acumen, though she was little more than a figurehead. She always carried herself with such grace in that den of jackals,” she began, with tears welling in her eyes once more. “The Sultana was the manner of leader—nay, the manner of  _ woman  _ I have always hoped I could be, to which I have aspired. One who did not let the burdens of leadership or the ugliness of politics crush her gentle heart, which bled for her people. I would not presume so much to name her a friend, but Nanamo felt as much to me. And I watched the light fade from her eyes. To watch her die thusly was cruel enough, but to bear the weight of these false accusations, to be exiled from my city for it...it is salt in the wound, truly.”

Of course, he did not know—and could not have possibly known—that it was not the first time Gisele’s honor and loyalty to her sovereign had been so impugned. He could not have known that this was not the first time a traitor lied, and named the order in which she felt such pride and fellowship a treasonous conspiracy of regicides. And it was not the first time that she was so hunted as a fugitive for it.

The shadow of Ostagar yet lingered, even a world away.

For his part, Haurchefant remained silent a moment, merely raising his hand to his mouth, a thoughtful fist pressed against his lips. There was somewhat in his compassionate measure that set all of Gisele’s carefully laid façades to crumbling, when she gazed upon eyes the same hue of steely blue as Loghain Mac Tir’s, and was minded of all she had sacrificed a lifetime and another world ago. Suddenly, the terrible truth she’d carried since the Praetorium felt as a leaden weight upon her heart. Shame washed over her, then, that this man in all his kindness would so open his hearth to her, to shelter her in profound trust and protect her from her enemies, yet she did not show him the same manner of faith. Gisele permitted him to believe in the fiction that was the Warrior of Light: an earnest Elezen adventurer who came to Ul’dah to master the magical arts for the good of Eorzea. Only the Scions’ elect knew the truth of who she truly was, and from whence she truly came; it was agreed upon by Gisele in conference with Minfilia to keep it so. 

But in so speaking with Haurchefant, Gisele longed to open her heart to him in full. And he had the right to know precisely whom it was he risked the wrath of the Syndicate to protect. Conviction came upon her, then, and she rose to her feet, laying the blanket upon her now empty chair.

Gisele took a deep, steadying breath, clamping her eyes shut hard before leveling her gaze down upon him. “My lord, I am grateful beyond measure for the aid and succor you have offered us so selflessly. That we should find sanctuary here, if nothing else, means a great deal to me. But if you mean to extend your hospitality to us even further, and open the doors of House Fortemps to us in truth, then I believe you should know the whole truth of who I am. I owe you this much,” she said. 

“You owe me  _ nothing _ , Gisele,” Haurchefant balked, furrowing his brow as he did. “What manner of knight would I be, to so abandon my duty to a woman who has done so much to aid Ishgard?”

Gisele’s heart sank suddenly; it surprised even her, the sharpness of the sting his words pricked upon it. “Duty, then? Is this about repaying a debt?” she asked, trying her damnedest to tamp down the tremor in her voice, and with it the sudden ache in her throat. 

Haurchefant’s eyes softened, and he smiled at her, rising to his own feet, to cross the short distance between them. “Nay, dear lady. The aid I sent to Revenant’s Toll—that was repaying a debt. Francel yet lives because of your courage, and I shall never forget that. But this...this is about somewhat more than Francel, or even Lady Iceheart,” he replied. He gently reached out to her, placing a hand upon her shoulder; it was warm, and unwontedly delicate, and her heart beat in her ears at his touch. 

“What manner of man would I be,” Haurchefant said, “to so abandon a dear friend in her hour of gravest need? The Braves betrayed you. Your city abandoned you, and named you a traitor and a murderess. But even should all Eorzea believe these cruel lies, I would not. If all the  _ world _ despised you, I would yet be your shield. Perhaps I am a fool for believing Hydaelyn’s own champion should ever need one of her own, and please forgive my presumption if I am, but I would gladly be yours, for nothing in return.”

Gisele reached for him without thinking, burying her face in his fine woolen tunic, and wrapped her arms about his neck, clinging to him tightly. “Ah, Haurche,” she said, muffled against the warmth of his heart, and choking back a sob. “Let none gainsay your kindness, or the goodness of your heart.”

She felt him tense a moment, perhaps startled; but only a moment, for then his arms wrapped about her, strong and true, and she near melted in them. She was starved for this manner of touch, she realized then, and perhaps more than she had ever been. Gisele required it as much as air or water, and had been denied it for far too long. It helped that Haurchefant’s was so filled with warmth—and no small amount of tightly checked passion, writ in the fierce drumbeat of his heart against her pointed ear, and in the mild tremor of his fingertips. 

She clung tightly to him, her fingers gripping the soft wool of his tunic, and took a deep breath, inhaling his scent—clove and pine, earthy wilderness. In truth, Gisele clung to him as if to life itself, for that is what Haurchefant was to her in that moment: a beacon of heat and life in such cold desolation. 

“A knight lives to serve,” Haurchefant said softly. “Whatsoever you may need, if it is at all within my power, then you shall have it, by my will and word. I cannot bear to see you suffer.”

“Right now…this is what I need,” Gisele replied, sighing in warm content. “You, like this.”

Haurchefant squeezed her tightly within the circle of his embrace, and rested his cheek against her soft white curls. “Then I am yours.”

Oh, how Gisele wished it were so in that precious moment, being so held in the strength of his arms; she wished it with the whole of her being, then, and clung to him even tighter, as if by so doing, she could will it. Would that she had Lord Haurchefant Greystone, this endlessly compassionate man who stood as a beacon of hope. Gisele found herself reaching for it as a moth to the flame, reaching for him. She longed to bask in the warmth of his light, to let it wash over her, that it might wash away this sorrow which settled upon her shoulders as surely as endless winter blanketed Coerthas.

And yet—how could she, knowing her grief for Nanamo, for Raubahn, and for all her companions was not the whole of what weighed upon her soul? Of a surety, Haurchefant spoke wisdom, when he spoke of festering pain, and the necessity of lancing it. For all he claimed not a healer’s skill, this merciful knight bore within him a healer’s perception—and a healer’s touch, soothing her ache and stirring yet new ones within her wounded heart. 

Gisele knew what she must do, and would not be turned aside this time, not even by his eloquence.

“Haurchefant?” she whispered.

“Yes, Gisele?” he said.

“You spoke of lancing wounds…only the whole of the truth will suffice to do so. And the whole of it is that the wounds I carry run far deeper than a single night of blood, poison, and betrayal. You said that you would listen, that naught would leave this chamber but by my will. You say I owe you nothing. Very well. Then I only ask of you to keep such a promise you made me; no more, but no less,” Gisele said.

Once more, Haurchefant squeezed her tightly; even tighter than before, then relaxed his grip only somewhat, pulling away from her to level his steady gaze upon her once more, his steely blue eyes filled with conviction and a fierce tenderness. “I did not make such a vow lightly—any of them. What say you, my friend? What weighs so upon such a gentle soul as yours?”

"I...am not from Eorzea," Gisele said, her heart beating in her ears as she did, and she trembled in his arms despite her best efforts.

Haurchefant's eyes grew wide, and he tilted his head slightly. "Oh? I must confess, when first we met, I'd marked you as Sharlayan as your Scion comrades, being so learned a woman as you are. Were you born there, in truth?" he asked.

"No, I am not...though I would truly love to see it someday. Of a surety, I hail from a place beyond even Sharlayan."

His eyes narrowed, though not in cruelty; they were sharp, and keen. "...Garlemald, then? T'would be a strange twist of fate, given your exploits, but you would not be the first exile to so oppose them, as Master Garlond would attest."

Gisele gently shook her head. "Nay, Haurchefant. I am neither Sharlayan nor Garlean, any more than I was born to Ul'dah, that glittering jewel of the desert from which I am so cruelly exiled. I am not from Eorzea; but neither am I from any of the known lands of this world. I was chosen by Hydaelyn, of a surety, but I am not  _ of _ Her. She summoned me here from another world, through the vastness of the cosmos, to be Her blessed champion."

"I beg your pardon?" Haurchefant asked, blinking hard.

She took a deep breath, inhaling his musky scent, letting it wash over her, calm her. Gisele was no green lass, and knew when it was time to dissemble. This was not one of those times, and what was more, she found herself incapable of doing so to this earnest knight, so noble and fair. It was best not to equivocate, she believed; Haurchefant deserved the truth, regardless of his protestations, and Gisele knew this in her heart. Thus she would offer it to him in perfect trust, lay it bare before him, that he could do with it what he may. It was the only course her heart would permit, where he was concerned.

"I was born in a nameless world far across the stars which knows naught of crystals, nor airships, nor Magitek wonders. My homeland is the kingdom of Ferelden, a small, fiercely proud backwater which has been occupied as much as she has been free, and lies in the southern reaches of the continent of Thedas,” Gisele began. “I was born there in Denerim, Ferelden’s capital city, as an impoverished elf—one might say they are akin to elezen, with sharp features and pointed ears. As a child, I was sickly and starving in one of the slums in which elves are forced to dwell, until I was found to possess the gift of magic. Then...everything changed.”

To his eternal credit, Haurchefant’s regard remained steady and credulous, though his brow furrowed, and his gaze grew wider in wonderment. “You come from another world?”

“Indeed, Haurche. I know it must seem uncommonly outlandish a tale already, but I swear to you I speak only the truth, as I so learned it from Hydaelyn Herself. It was the light of the crystals which awakened my memories, and Minfilia helped me to piece it together, through the power of the Echo,” Gisele replied.

Haurchefant swallowed hard. “I will not gainsay it, Gisele. Even should I not place the utmost trust in you—and I do—the sheer incredulity would stand surety for it. A bard could not weave so queer a tale,” he said, with a wry little smile. His voice grew soft once more, his expression curious. “How did you come to be spirited here by the Mothercrystal, then?”

Gisele closed her eyes.

“I...died.”

Two words hung in the air, followed by a long silence.

It was broken by Haurchefant’s sharp intake of breath.

Gisele glanced up at him, and spied great, shining tears standing in Haurchefant’s eyes, grown wide and awe-filled; he drew Gisele closer to him, into an embrace so tight she feared a moment she might be crushed by it. “Oh, Gisele. To think, I believed you a champion merely of Eorzea. What in the seven hells precipitated such a sacrifice?”

“That...is a tale that may take some time to share,” Gisele replied a bit sheepishly. 

“Never you mind that. I would hear it in full, if that is what you wish.” Haurchefant pulled away from her, but only to cross the room to the small table where she took her supper, and reached for the crystal decanter of wine and a second chalice. “Come, Gisele. Tell me this remarkable story,” he urged.

So it was that Gisele spun out the tale of Thedas’ great woe for him, beginning at first with the avarice of the ancient Tevinter magisters and their corruption of the Golden City, which birthed the darkspawn and their accursed taint, the subsequent ravages of the Archdemon Dumat and the first Blight, and the birth of the Grey Wardens. 

Then, she moved to her own history: her early childhood in the Denerim alienage and the sicknesses she endured; Hydaelyn making Herself known to her as a Spirit of Love; the templars seizing her when her gift of magic first made itself known; coming of age in Kinloch Hold; besting the Pride Demon in her Harrowing. She moved then to the stirrings of the Fifth Blight, Duncan conscripting her for the Wardens, Loghain’s withdrawal at Ostagar and the massacre thereafter, and that year’s journey to raise an army to save Ferelden from the darkspawn. 

Gisele spoke of it all, between sips of wine and water, opening the book of her old life to Haurchefant without hesitation or shame. It seemed more than passing strange to her, as she laid it all bare to him; speaking it aloud, it was almost as though she  _ were _ a bard weaving a tale—one which happened to someone else, for how distant it now seemed.

And Haurchefant listened to her in absolute rapt attention, his brow furrowed, pausing her only a moment here and there to seek a point of clarification; to his credit, he truly did not gainsay a word of it, and only sought to further understand. He grew agitated upon learning of the price placed upon her head, shared her tears several times, and also laughter—particularly when she spoke of Zevran’s failed attempt on her life, and her subsequent seduction of him.

“You bedded the assassin sent to kill you, the selfsame night as his attempt?” Haurchefant sporfled, laughing into his wine chalice.

“Somewhat about a beautiful man groveling in the dirt at my feet stirred my soul,” Gisele explained, with an impish little smile. She primly smoothed a wrinkle from her tunic. “And Zevran could be rather persuasive.”

Haurchefant’s laughter grew sultry, at that. “Aye, I suppose that would do it.”

Gisele’s smile brightened, and his knowing grin made her recall the bevy of strapping knights, Elezen and otherwise, who coincidentally always seemed to be taking their exercises in Haurchefant’s office, bereft of shirts and shame by turns, vying for the attention of their handsome knight commander.

Truly, he was a man after her own heart.

It was never more evident than when she spoke of the love and passion she’d found along that journey to save Ferelden. Of a surety, Gisele had shared the story of her life in Thedas with her friends and comrades among the Scions, and all knew the tale in broad strokes of how she became a Grey Warden and sacrificed herself to slay the Archdemon Urthemiel and end the Fifth Blight, only to be stolen away from fated oblivion by Hydaelyn’s divine intervention. She’d even told them of the lovers she left behind. 

But not even Minfilia or Thancred, whom she held dearest among the Scions, knew of the things Gisele spoke that night to Haurchefant before the dimming fire. She confessed of succumbing to the temptations of the Desire Demon within the Fade, who wore her beloved Duncan’s face. Tears welled in her eyes once more, as she told him of the desperate night of rawest passion she shared with Alistair in the wretched darkness of the Deep Roads, when she surrendered to ravishment in the face of fear and despair. And she spoke of the shame which filled her when she realized her feelings toward Loghain had irrevocably and inexplicably turned from direst hatred to fiercest love. 

And Haurchefant listened intently, reaching over to slip his hand over hers, squeezing it tightly in reassurance as he heard her confessions. 

“There is no shame in any of these things, my friend,” he said firmly. “To love in defiance of death—to cling to that which makes us frail and mortal in all its beauty and wonder, when facing such horrors...ah, Gisele, you move this son of Ishgard more than you might realize. My people have endured the horrors of war for generations, and I, too, believe it is love which permits us to endure—our bonds of companionship which shine as a light in such darkness, beckoning us onward, reminding us of why we persist beyond mere striving for survival.” 

“As do I, Haurche. Before I knew the Mother as Hydaelyn, I believed Her gentle presence a Spirit of Love come from the Fade, and I knew Her before I knew my own name. Love is what guides me, always. Of a surety, it was love which brought me to this star. I could not bear to see Alistair or Loghain die in my place. I gave my life for them both, and I would gladly do it again.”

Gisele blinked slowly, a tear caught upon her long lashes; her breath hitched slightly as Haurchefant lifted his thumb, to gently brush it away. 

“Yours is a rare and gentle heart, Gisele. I pray your Prince Alistair held it well in his keeping. I do not envy that man his loss. Nor your other lovers,” Haurchefant said gravely. 

She sighed, lowering her eyes, as she remembered somewhat else. “Our love was star-crossed and ill-fated from the moment the Landsmeet named him king. Mayhap—mayhap it is better this way.” Gisele choked back another sob through sheer, obstinate force of will, clamping down upon her full lower lip with her teeth. 

“By the Fury, Gisele!” Haurchefant protested with a shocked gasp. “I would never believe such cruelties, and forgive me for presuming, I know not the man—but I do not believe Alistair would either. Not if he loved you the way you imply. To countenance the loss of a woman like you is beyond my ken. I pray I shall never know it, and shall do everything within my power on my life as a knight of House Fortemps to ensure I never do.”

Gisele felt warmth rising in her cheeks at his impassioned declaration, despite teetering upon the edge of despair. Grief upon grief threatened to consume her; she had not truly grieved for Thedas, for herself, since learning the truth of who she was and the fullest measure of the price she paid. The loss of what may well have been had the threads of fate spun somewhat differently pained her as much as anything. And so she did not dwell upon it. Instead, she held fast to the belief which Haurchefant in all his romantic idealism named a cruelty; he could not know it was all that stood between Gisele and unimaginable pain. 

“You name it a cruelty; I name it truth. You cannot understand why our love was so doomed even should I remain whole and hale in a land which despised my kind,” Gisele said gravely. 

Haurchefant’s brow furrowed at that. “I wish to understand. What is such doom that death is preferable in the main?”

Gisele sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. How, then, could she weave for him the tale of ancestral woe that led to a sickly and starving girl-child born to an unwed mother in a slum, for whom no act of heroism would ever erase centuries of degradations? How, then, to name the oppression she knew in Thedas to an Elezen nobleman who would never be called a knife-ear, a knight commander who would neither be mistaken for a manservant, nor whipped for naught but his own pleasure and by his own consent?

Nonetheless, she tried. 

“Imagine a moment that Ishgard should lose its long war against the Dravanians, and the victorious heretics cast down the Holy See, enslaving the survivors and sacrificing them upon blood soaked altars for foul magics to fuel the wealth of an empire. Imagine a Hyur prophet came leading a rebellion, and your people were freed after her martyrdom to make your lives anew, to build a new homeland with what little of your culture and lifeblood remained after such brutal subjugation. Imagine, then, that the Hyur church which rose in her name branded you idolaters and savages for keeping the faith of Halone—the faith of your ancestors that was near destroyed—and worshipping the Fury rather than their prophet’s god, and that for this transgression all you rebuilt was put to the torch. Imagine that what little remained was claimed by yet another Hyur empire, with the High Houses cast down, your children put to the sword. 

“Broken at last by this final injustice, imagine that what few Ishgardians survived ventured defeated to Hyuran cities to live in mean servitude little better than the slavery their ancestors knew, housed in the rudest part of those cities, named slurs for their pointed ears, their lithe bodies viewed with lust and envy by turns, suffering rape and degradation at the cruel hands of Hyuran lords. And imagine that those Ishgardians who chose not this life, who clung to the desperate illusion of a freedom they could never truly know again, roamed the wilderness as nomads, fearful of the Hyur, piecing together in desperate defiance what little of Ishgard remained after such atrocities, and the horrors of colonization and enslavement.”

Tears streamed from Gisele’s eyes. “This is the lot of my people,” she said. “The elvhen, whom you might call Elezen. Only it was not dragons who subjugated my ancestors and enslaved them, but those humans—like to the Hyur—who worshiped them as idols and committed atrocities in their name,” she finished, her voice broken and trembling as she did. 

Haurchefant’s face fell at her words, a shadow cast upon eyes blue as a summer sky. “This is what you left behind, in your Thedas?”

“Yes.” 

“Did  _ no one _ stand for your people? What of the conscience of nations? Were there no humans to rise up, to cry out against this injustice, as their holy Andraste once did?” Haurchefant demanded in incredulity.

“No.”

“And yet... you gave your life to save them?”

“Yes. For all it wronged me, I still loved my country. I knew great cruelty, of a surety. As one example, I can not share the Fereldan love of hounds—not when I saw her lords set them upon elvhen children for sport when I was but a girl in the alienage. But, too, I knew great kindness in Ferelden, and the fiercest love. As I said, I knew Hydaelyn all my life as a Spirit of Love, before I knew my own name, and what I did, I did for love. Alistair carried my hopes and dreams for a better future, when the Landsmeet anointed him king. And by the gods of two worlds, I pray he sees them realized upon the throne, with our loves to guide him, for it was not my fate to do so. Hydaelyn required somewhat else of me. Eorzea needed me.”

Wordlessly, Haurchefant reached for her, pulling her into another tight embrace. And Gisele clung to him once more, burying her nose in the elegant line of his neck. He stroked her silvery curls. “And Eorzea has treated you little better,” he sighed.

“No,” Gisele agreed. “But you asked why the truth of Alistair’s heritage doomed our love; the sad, sorry history of my people is why. For all they covet our beauty, no kingdom in Thedas would ever countenance an elven queen. And the Landsmeet would never suffer that precious Theirin blood to be spoiled by even a human mage, much less an elven one. Had I lived to see him crowned, I could have been naught but Alistair’s mistress. The nobleman who fostered him made that abundantly clear to me.”

“Even after all you toiled and bled for them? Are Fereldans truly so petty and ungrateful?” Haurchefant balked. 

“Are Ishgardians?” Gisele retorted, with more venom upon her tongue than she truly intended; she was weary, still, and not herself. But she could not help but be bitter, that she should be forced to act the beggar at the Gates of Judgement after singlehandedly defending them against the Dravanian onslaught upon the Steps of Faith. 

For his part, Haurchefant’s eyes darkened, but he would not gainsay her anger; he  _ could _ not. Gisele knew him too well, by now. “Mayhap,” he said simply. “But not this one; and not a single one who swears fealty to the scarlet unicorn of House Fortemps. I spoke true, dear lady, when I said that we do not forget our friends. Certainly, those accursed Dravanians have stolen much from us in this damnable, endless war...but they shall not have our honor.”

Gisele’s eyes softened, at the passion with which he spoke. Never did Haurchefant Greystone leave one doubting the fire which burned in his heart, nor doubting where it belonged. 

“Regardless,” she continued, “I would be no man’s secret shame, skulking about the halls at night, hiding our love in the shadows. I would be his glory or nothing at all. The moment we determined Alistair should sit the throne, I knew I lost him.”

“Yet still you countenanced it,  _ knowing _ you would lose him,” Haurchefant said.

Gisele’s answering smile was bitterly ironic, self-deprecating even. “The lot of a Grey Warden is sacrifice, Haurche. We swear it before the Joining chalice: that all we are, all we should be, is given unto ending the darkspawn threat. All else pales before that solemn duty. Queen Anora could never have understood what it was Ferelden faced, and she stood between us and our purpose, believing it was little more than a game of thrones we played. What did my love for Alistair mean when measured against the fate of a kingdom and a continent entire? What did the pain of my shattered heart mean when measured against women and children forced to flee their homes and blighted villages? So I did what I must, no matter the cost. Such was my vow.”

“Spoken as a true knight, my Sorceress of the Grey,” Haurchefant said. “Such sacrifice you have been forced to endure, and so thanklessly! And now, in Ul’dah...oh, Gisele. Let none gainsay your strength, my friend. I daresay Saint Valeroyant himself would even find his own wanting, when measured against it. And I am humbled by the trust you place in me, sharing this gravest history. I shall do everything within my power to prove myself worthy of it. And I swear to you by the Fury Herself that you shall no longer be forced to endure these burdens alone. Mine is a shoulder upon which you may lean, always.”

He squeezed her tightly, and she clung to him with her eyes shut, drinking in his warmth, taking solace in his tender embrace. Gisele wanted to weep once more, so moved she was by his kindness and his solemn vow. Were he any other, she might have allowed cynicism to cloud her judgment, and think it naught but a meaningless platitude.

But not Lord Haurchefant. His sincerity was beyond all measure of doubt; this was simply who he was, and it was so easy to believe him, when he held her this way. It brought her more comfort than she could have dreamed, in so dire a circumstance and with nowhere to turn, that such a noble soul would treat her with such compassion. Indeed, it was such compassion—along with the passion of his conviction—which drew her to him, and not merely his beauty, fine though it was. He might well have been the kindest man she had ever known, in two worlds. And in her heart, by the warmth of his embrace and his words by turns, Gisele knew this long night would end, and dawn would come. 

After a long moment, Haurchefant sighed, then gently pulled away from her, untangling himself from her arms—with great reluctance, it seemed. He rose from his chair, gazing down upon her with an unwontedly soft expression that belied the fire which suddenly burned in his eyes. 

“Forgive me for abandoning you so soon, but I must go to Ishgard anon. I mean to petition Count Edmont concerning your status, and I must do so in person,” he said. “Betimes my lord is stubborn, and such grave matters as these must not be left to pen and messengers.”

It was not because she was ungrateful that Gisele’s heart sank at his declaration; far from it. But it meant the loss of his warm embrace, if only for a day, and the prospect of being bereft of him even for so short a time filled her with dread. 

Perceptive as he was, Haurchefant smiled down at her, placing strong hands upon her shoulders. He squeezed them tightly, then idly smoothed the woolen fabric. “I won’t be gone long, I swear to you. And when I return, it shall be with wonderful news, and mayhap a few pastries from the Crozier!”

Gisele returned his smile, if somewhat halfheartedly. “I shall hold you to that, ser knight. My preference is chocolate,” she said. 

Haurchefant nodded slowly, his smile grown warmer, and bowed gracefully to her before turning to leave the room. 


	2. Chapter 2

After falling into what seemed the sleep of the dead, Gisele awakened the next morning to the steely light of dawn piercing the narrow windows of her chamber high in the fortress. For the briefest of moments, she forgot where she was; but the early morning chill stirred her memory—along with the scent of yew and pine, unmistakably Coerthan. It seemed that it was far too much to dare hope the events of the previous night had been naught but a terrifying dream, and that she would awaken in Thancred’s arms in the Rising Stones. 

But this was not Mor Dhona, and Thancred was still gone, and with him Minfilia and everyone save Urianger—Creators be praised for that small mercy, and his Sharlayan cunning. But there was naught to be done about their circumstances, and Gisele had done quite enough brooding and weeping. She determined to keep her sharp mind occupied by somewhat beside fear and guilt, the better to find her way out of these precarious circumstances. 

She rose to see ample supplies restocked within the small bathing chamber, and after a steaming soak she began to feel somewhat more Elezen. More clothing had been procured for her, a dress of simple forest green woolens that was soft and warm against the cold, along with a deeply cowled heavy velveteen cloak, thick hose, and fur lined boots. Gisele smiled sheepishly, recalling the words of her host the previous night; it seemed he was not jesting when he vowed to be sure she was warm enough.

Of a surety, Lord Haurchefant  _ was _ a man of his word, as Gisele discovered once again, venturing outside into the inner courtyard of Camp Dragonhead to learn that the honored knight commander had indeed set out for Ishgard at first light, just as he said he would the night before. 

And with Yugiri’s shinobi scouring the Thanalan desert for any news or signs of the missing Scions, as well as with Cid’s promises of aid, there was little else Gisele and the others could do but wait upon said news. It was the manner of idleness which was like to drive her mad, more than anything. Perhaps she had grown too accustomed to determining her own fate, as a self-made adventurer and Scion, and had forgotten what it meant to be at the mercy of others. It was not something she precisely relished, as a kindness. 

Nonetheless, Haurchefant left standing orders to his men and all the Fortemps retainers and hirelings at Dragonhead to see to the beleaguered Scions’ every possible need, for which Gisele was immensely grateful. She met Tataru and Alphinaud in the knights’ mess to break the night’s fast moments later. They could well have been served in the intercessory, which Haurchefant had graciously allotted to their Scion business—the “Falling Snows” was only half a jest, in truth—but the trio agreed that it would be best not to set themselves apart from the bevy of retainers and mercenaries in service to House Fortemps. Information was what they needed, and Gisele believed as well that sequestering themselves was not the way to ingratiate themselves to their hosts. 

It was hearty fare they were served. Lord Haurchefant fed his people quite well, it seemed, eschewing soldiers’ rations for well-cured meats and fluffy, herbed egg quiches, as well as a delectable hash of popotoes and earthy roasted vegetables. And the Fortemps knights treated their guests with all the kindness of their beloved commander, serving the three of them with welcoming smiles, making ample room at one of the long tables for them while keeping a respectful distance. 

When Gisele sat upon the bench, Alphinaud slid in across from her, and Tataru climbed up beside her—rather comically boosting upon a wooden apple box, which was procured with only light mirth by one of the Fortemps knights. The diminutive Lalafell nonetheless kept her dignity, such as it was, and Gisele felt a sudden pang, reminded as she was of Nanamo being hoisted aloft by Raubahn.

She lightly shook her head, as if to shake the maudlin thoughts from her mind by sheer force, and turned them instead to her friends. There would be time to grieve and mourn; for now, it was the living who needed her—and she needed them.

“Did you sleep well, Alphi?” Gisele asked, as she carved a piece of savory sausage with her knife. 

Alphinaud’s answering smile was admittedly somewhat wan, but it pleased Gisele to see him capable of it nonetheless, given his despair in the night. “Quite well, actually. Lord Haurchefant pressed yet more hot chocolate upon me, ‘ere we parted for the night. It proved more effective than any healer’s draught,” he said.

“It was rather tasty, wasn’t it?” Tataru agreed fervently. “So rich and warm.”

Gisele smiled at the memory of it, and glanced down at her. “Indeed. And how does the morning find you, Tataru?”

“Better, though I suppose it couldn’t get much worse than last night. I spoke a long while with Yugiri before she departed, which helped?” Tataru replied. “Knowing she and her shinobi are out there scouring Eorzea for any sign of the lost...tis a comfort.”

Alphinaud nodded, then took a long sip of freshly pressed fruit juices from his pewter cup before speaking again. “It is rather doubtful we may raise anyone by linkpearl—like as not, they’ve disabled them for safety’s sake. But I shall try again today.” He turned his gaze then to Gisele. “Know you anything more of Lord Haurchefant’s plans, Gisele? They said he rode hells for leather to the Holy See at dawn’s first light.”

“He means to plead our case for asylum to Count Edmont de Fortemps himself,” Gisele answered, and Alphinaud’s eyes went a bit wide when she did. 

“Truly? I did not doubt for a moment the man’s sincerity, when he vowed to aid us. But even so...I can scarce believe even he would go to such lengths,” Alphinaud said. He lowered his eyes rather pensively upon his fork full of popotoes. “Ishgard does not suffer outsiders gladly, and its long war against the Dravanians has greatly intensified of late. Still...to have the backing of one of the High Houses would prove an invaluable boon, and may tip the scales in our favor after all. Let us pray that Lord Haurchefant bears a gift for persuasion.”

“What you say of Ishgard is true, Alphinaud...but that is the very reason we must go. Not even the Syndicate’s long arm could extend quite so far as the Holy See,” Tataru said firmly. “Haurchefant has shone for us the light of hope, and I believe in him.”

Alphinaud smiled at her. “I find myself sharing your conviction. Perhaps it was the cocoa, but I believe we would be remiss if we did not seize upon this generous opportunity. Should we find sanctuary within the Holy See, we should be prepared.”

Gisele nodded. “Well said. I know little of Ishgard, save a few tidbits gleaned in conversation with Lord Haurchefant and Ser Aymeric, and I’ve no desire to walk blind into a besieged city known for intrigues and zealotry.” She gazed thoughtfully down at Tataru, whose appetite appeared quite healthy, all things considered. “I mean to avail myself of the library here—Minfilia spoke highly of it. Will you keep a weather eye upon our hosts, learning aught you can of their situation and temperament?”

“Of course,” Tataru replied. “I’m low enough to the ground, after all. Tis a simple thing, keeping an ear to it!”

The sight of Tataru’s signature impish grin, smeared with crumbs, was enough to send Gisele doubling over in hysterical laughter; she nearly fumbled her utensils, only catching her fork before it hit the table with the quick and deft reflexes of a red mage, before lifting a cloth napkin to her lips to stifle herself. She was not alone in her amusement either, for Alphinaud as well held his fine silk handkerchief to his mouth, primly covering his giggling. It, too, was a welcome sight and a reminder—however small—that dawn yet broke indeed after their darkest night, and even through aching despair and incalculable loss, they survived together. Come what may, Gisele, Alphinaud, and Tataru still had one other. 

The Scions of the Seventh Dawn would endure. 

It heartened Gisele, and when the laughter subsided, she smiled warmly down upon Tataru.

“Thank you, my friend,” she said.

“Anything, for the Warrior of Light.” 

Tataru’s grin was only slightly less impish when she said it. 

Alphinaud dabbed at the corners of his mouth, then took a deep, contented sigh. “I suppose we all have our plans, then. Shall we convene once more within the intercessory later on?”

Tataru giggled lightly. “Don’t you mean the Falling Snows?”

He smiled a bit sheepishly. “Very well—the Falling Snows, it is. What say you, Gisele?”

“Of course. I shall meet you both anon, therein. I’ve a great deal of study to do.”

Taking her leave of the mess, Gisele dutifully stopped by the infirmary at last; once declared fit by the camp chirurgeons, she sought Lord Haurchefant’s second, Ser Yaelle, who directed her to a chamber high within one of the towers. Gazing about the room, she was minded suddenly of her childhood in the Circle Tower, for it seemed there was an absolute wealth of knowledge curated in the library at Camp Dragonhead. These shelves were not nearly so extensive as Kinloch Hold’s, but they were nonetheless impressive for that of an ostensible fortress and military outpost. 

It also appeared that the tomes Minfilia scoured for lore on the heretics’ Saint Shiva some weeks prior had not yet been returned to House Fortemps in Ishgard proper. Gisele found them still neatly stacked upon a small table, and she idly traced the Halonic crest embossed upon the cover of the topmost volume. She thought to begin there, for this was surely the Enchiridion, sacred scripture of the Ishgardian Orthodox Church—every bit the foundation of the Holy See that the Chant of Light was to her native Thedas. Though her past dealings with the famously devout Ishgardians were brief enough, during the search for the  _ Enterprise  _ and the hunt for Garuda, even that was enough to firmly underscore the import of the Halonic faith in Coerthas. 

Gisele thought much upon the false Inquisitor that drowned the cliffs of Witchdrop in innocent blood and would have added Lord Haurchefant’s beloved Lord Francel de Haillenarte to that number were it not for her timely intervention. To an outsider such as she, Ishgard seemed a cold world of zealotry and paranoia, but with Dravanian aligned heretics infiltrating their most hallowed institutions with such ease, was that paranoia truly so unfounded?

To think, Gisele and her friends sought sanctuary within those walls. It made her shudder...and yet, Haurchefant was right. It would be that very reputation for mistrust and insularity that would shield them better than anything else against the machinations of Lolorito and the Syndicate. And no traitorous Crystal Brave would find aid or succor in their hunt for the remaining Scions in such a foreboding place as Coerthas. Haurchefant vowed as much. 

So Gisele did what she knew she must, seeking insight into the Ishgardian character, and thus began with the cornerstone of their culture. She sat down at the table, hefting the Enchiridion from atop the pile onto the surface before her. The sheer size of the volume was daunting to behold—even to a woman who, as a child, once devoured a glossary of ancient Tevene grammar in its entirety, purely for her leisure. The Halonic scriptures were fully three times the size of the Chant of Light, by Gisele’s brief reckoning, and while she duly noted that it was an annotated volume, as she began to skin the pages, even the smaller tome she spied upon a nearby shelf was hardly slimmer. 

This would not do, Gisele thought to herself. One might spend a lifetime perusing those sacred scriptures. Many had, judging by the breadth of theological essays upon the shelves. Then, too, there was often a profound disconnect between scriptural teachings and the way they shaped the character of those who held them sacred. Gisele knew this all too well, being subject to the fears and prejudices of the Andrastian Chantry. One might deem it overly cynical to believe the same of the Holy See, but not this daughter of the Circle and the Alienage by turns. Men always had a way of distorting holy writ to serve less than holy purpose. 

No, not the Enchiridion, not now; instead, Gisele turned to the abundant chronicles upon the shelves, seeking to build a foundation of understanding there first, in the annals of Ishgard’s bloodstained history. She knew it in broad strokes, shared with her by Alphinaud in the intercessory upon their arrival and in fragments told by Ser Aymeric and Lord Haurchefant during their hunt for Lady Iceheart, but it was now within texts both mundane and illumined that the shape of it took hold for Gisele. 

She sat enthralled as she devoured it: the tale of King Thordan and his Knights Twelve, legendary founding fathers of Ishgard, and how they followed a vision sent by Halone the Fury Herself, to a lush and verdant valley. There, they were beset by the dread wyrm Nidhogg, and after a fierce battle, the good king fell, to be avenged by his son Haldrath, who claimed the wyrm’s eye—and with it, its power. But victory was bittersweet, and the grieving prince renounced the throne, instead devoting his life to harnessing the power of the Eye, wielding it in tireless defense of his people against the dragons. In doing so, Haldrath became the first Azure Dragoon of Ishgard. 

It was a stirring tale, of a surety, and one that appealed to the child in Gisele, who eagerly consumed such stories of brave chevaliers and deadly dragons in the Circle. But as a woman grown, and with a mind for politics, she found herself equally intrigued by what followed. With their king dead and his sole heir in abdication of the throne, the Knights Twelve divided the rule of fledging Ishgard among them; foremost the High Houses, which numbered Dzemael, Haillenarte, Durendaire, and Lord Haurchefant’s Fortemps. And  _ they _ bowed only to Halone’s Chosen, the Archbishop.

Every Ishgardian of noble birth could trace their ancestry back to one of these legendary knights, even those of minor houses. For Gisele, bastard child of the Dales and the Denerim alienage, such lineage unbroken was nigh beyond comprehension. And as they had so often of late, her thoughts turned to Lord Haurchefant; for it was an extraordinary thing to mark his handsome features within the stately portrait of Count Flavien de Fortemps upon the page before her. Her generous host was truly the spitting image of his storied knightly ancestor, and Gisele found herself idly tracing the high cheekbones and distinctive, hawk-like nose with a delicate fingernail upon the parchment. She recalled the warmth of his embrace upon the previous eve, and was gripped by a sudden pang of terrible longing. 

Swallowing down the ache, Gisele took a deep and steadying breath. Was she not here, perusing the library, to keep her mind occupied with study and not her ache for him? It was truly easier said than done, for politics were far less pleasant than daydreaming of the handsome knight who vowed to aid and protect her, come what may, but she must—not merely for her own sake, but for Tataru, Alphinaud, and Urianger. Truly, the future of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, and Eorzea by extension, may well rest upon Gisele’s grasp of Ishgardian mores and society. The schoolgirl fluttering of her heart was quite inconsequential by comparison. 

Gisele sighed, and forced herself to turn the page. 

And though it paled before steely blue eyes and a brilliant smile, Ishgard  _ was _ quite fascinating to her, for it was quite unlike anywhere else in Eorzea—or Thedas, for that matter. Superficially, she noted some resemblance to Orlais, for its proud order of chevaliers and the all-powerful, mighty arm of its Chantry, though both institutions bore different monikers than their Orlesian counterparts. But for all Divine Justinia’s far reaching power, Orlais had an Empress seated upon her throne. And in the Great Game, that all-encompassing web of intrigue in which every Orlesian noble was caught as a fly—even the Chantry was ultimately a mere piece upon that board.

Not so in Ishgard, for the Holy See was a theocracy in the purest sense of the word. With no King since Thordan I perished to Nidhogg, and Prince Haldrath’s abdication for the Lance and Eye, for one thousand years it was the Archbishop of the Ishgardian Orthodox Church whose rule was absolute. Even the four ruling Counts of the High Houses and all the intrigues of the Ishgardian nobility must ultimately defer to his will. 

’Twas a strange, strange state of affairs for an outsider such as Gisele to behold, much less a woman born to Ferelden with its squabbling Landsmeet, who elected kings and settled disputes in trial by combat. It made even less sense to a Grey Warden who pulled off a coup in the selfsame manner, after strong-arming every temporal power in the land with ancient treaties to raise an army.

Politics, it would seem, would not be so straightforward in Ishgard. 

And all of this paled of course before the fact that nowhere outside the dreaded Tevinter Imperium were men permitted as naught but lowly Brothers within the Chantry, all for Maferath’s sins, yet Ishgard’s very Divine was himself every bit as male as the Tevinter patriarch she had been taught was a heretical mockery for all her youth. 

It was all enough to make Gisele’s head spin. Still, she did her level best to contain her sense of culture shock. For all their commonalities of tongue and intrigue, Ishgard was  _ not _ Orlais, nor was Halone’s church Andraste’s chantry, and she was firm in the belief that she would do well to remember it. 

So it was that Gisele spent the next several hours perusing text upon text, until her eyelids began to grow heavy, and flowing script blurred upon parchment. At last rising from her chair, she stretched her long, slender arms, and set aside the thick tome she’d been idly thumbing through—a rather dry treatise on the history of the Four Vigils, penned by a scion of House Durendaire who was overfond of his own voice. Even Gisele had her limits, it would seem. 

Like as not, someone would soon come to fetch her, for she glanced at the chronometer upon the table and was shocked to see the morning had passed rather swiftly, engrossed as she was in her reading. Her belly let loose an angry snarl, and she buried her face in her hands with a light, self-deprecating chuckle. Naturally, she no longer had her Warden appetites to blame, with no darkspawn taint to speak of in her Elezen blood; merely her far-more-prosaic terrible old mage habits.

Gisele resolved to make her way to the Intercessory first in the hopes of news. Hunger could wait, in the midst of such uncertainty. 

Tataru and Alphinaud awaited her within its roomy chamber—and with them a veritable feast laid upon the council table. Camp Dragonhead’s larder was as well stocked as ever, it seemed. 

“There you are! I was just going to fetch you. You fell into the books again, didn’t you?” Tataru asked with a teasing little grin. 

“Hazards of the profession, I’m afraid. Forgive me if I bade you wait too long,” Gisele said. 

Alphinaud shook his head. “There is nothing to forgive; they only just brought it in moments ago. Come, let us break bread and share our findings.”

It was passing strange for Gisele to sit at that table without Haurchefant’s presence as a silent guardian; stranger still that it was Alphinaud seated across from her, and not Ser Aymeric de Borel. They’d certainly convened enough within this chamber over the past weeks, negotiating terms and strategy during the Iceheart crisis. It was a careful line the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights was forced to walk, in the lion’s den of Ishgardian politics, but he did so with grace and cunning, and Gisele was glad to have him as an ally. His would be a powerful voice indeed to speak on the Scions’ behalf. She wondered if Haurchefant might speak with him in Ishgard, as well.

Nonetheless, Gisele found herself missing his presence there in the Intercessory nearly as much as Haurchefant’s, having grown fond of him, and she tried to put it out of her mind as she filled her plate with an assortment of meats and cheeses, fresh fruit and crusty bread.

“It never ceases to amaze me how the Fortemps forces eat so well here, with Coerthas’ fields blanketed in this eternal winter,” Alphinaud remarked, spreading a creamy manner of cheese upon a hunk of baguette. 

“Lord Haurchefant is as shrewd a tradesman as he is a military commander, by all accounts,” Tataru said. “Camp Dragonhead’s coffers want for little, with trade flowing far freer here than the city proper.”

“It helps that of the High Houses, House Fortemps appears to be the wealthiest alongside the Durendaire. Their allies the Haillenarte have suffered grievously in their disfavor. The pall of heresy still shrouds their house, even with Lord Francel’s exoneration. Dzemael are hardly starving, but lost more than they care to admit in the Darkhold debacle, and are wary of foreigners even for Ishgardians. By contrast, the Fortemps have no such misfortune to their names, and owing to what Tataru said, as well as the progressive policies of Count Edmont, Camp Dragonhead more than pays for itself,” Alphinaud added. 

Gisele smiled. “You’ve kept yourselves well occupied this morning, I see,” she said. 

“Twas that or go mad with worry,” Tataru admitted. She looked to Alphinaud, her eyes wide. “Were you able to raise anyone by linkpearl?”

Alphinaud sighed into his sandwich, taking a firm bite with a furrowed brow, and swallowed hard. “Nay. If any of our comrades yet remain free and hale, they have well and truly gone to ground. We can only pray that Urianger can pass a quiet word that the Sands remains a haven, but even that may prove a risk too great.”

“Have faith, Alphinaud,” Tataru said firmly. “If nothing else, Riol has a great many contacts in Limsa Lominsa, owing to his rather colorful past on the sea. And his gift for infiltration and reconnaissance is second only to Thancred’s. I am certain he found a way to spirit the others to safety.”

Alphinaud nodded. “I pray your efforts were more fruitful than mine, Gisele.”

Gisele looked up from her plate, and chuckled. “Well, if I did not know before the might wielded by the High Houses, I certainly do now—and that which the Church wields is greater still. If anything, the task before us seems far more daunting than it did at the start. ‘Tis well and good that we have such a powerful ally in House Fortemps, but even should Lord Haurchefant pry open those gates, the Archbishop could slam them shut with a single word.”

“Then let us pray we stay on the right side of Halone’s chosen,” Alphinaud said. Gisele‘s lips pursed into a frown, as she only picked at her plate rather halfheartedly. 

“Let us, indeed,” she sighed. 


	3. Chapter 3

Thus matters stood for Gisele and her comrades, in fear and uncertainty. The hours, long and interminable, stretched into days, as they awaited word from the Holy See on their desperate petition. 

For their part, the knights of House Fortemps continued to prove most gracious hosts. And though they insisted such aid and succor as offered the Scions was rendered with no expectations of repayment, by order of their commander, the Scions nonetheless vowed by accord silent and unspoken that they should make themselves useful. Not merely as thanks for House Fortemps’ continued generosity in their time of gravest need, but to chase away that ever lurking cloud of despair. With the very future of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn at stake—and with it, Eorzea herself—it proved ever more difficult for them to remain in idleness. 

Fortunately, there was no lack of work to be found at Camp Dragonhead. For a pair of interminably long days, Gisele aided with the harvesting of herbs, the mending of uniforms, and the brewing of medicines for the infirmary, among other decidedly-unglamorous but no less critical tasks, making use of her prodigious artisanal skills rather than her magicks. She vowed to keep the hearth Haurchefant had opened to her in such warmth and generosity in his absence, and keep it well. 

And when she was not occupied with this task, Gisele stood atop the highest parapet of the fortress, gazing out into the snow blanketed horizon, her eyes searching for any sign of her benefactor, her heart filled with an ache that only grew as the hours stretched on—one that had little to do with the tragedies of the desert. Even as she carried about the varied tasks she’d claimed for herself, her breath caught in her throat every time she spied a lanky Elezen knight clad in immaculate Fortemps livery riding through the gates to the courtyard. 

And every time, her heart sank when it was not  _ him _ . 

On the third day of her Coerthan exile, murmurings of a terrible storm brewing off the western highlands circulated among Camp Dragonhead’s skywatchers, and Gisele noted them well, when she left the infirmary following her afternoon rounds. As always, she climbed the stone stair, past the massive aetheryte with its soft cerulean glow, and ascended the highest parapet, to resume her silent vigil. 

Would that Lord Haurchefant returned to her in all haste, ahead of the approaching storm, for the roads would swiftly become impassable. The memory of being penned within the icy walls of Daniffen’s Pass by one such blizzard was still fresh in her mind. This was a harsh and unforgiving land, and Gisele swallowed hard at the sudden thought of Haurchefant valiantly pressing on through howling winds and blinding snow, though his fine mail shirt be pelted with the tiny shards of stinging ice that nearly always accompanied such storms in Coerthas. 

So Gisele prayed silently to whomever might listen—his own Halone, the rest of the Twelve, even the distant Creators of her Dalish mother—that he would return safely to her, and soon. She wrapped her cloak about her tightly against the frigid wind, staring out upon the frost-kissed road to Ishgard. 

And as the sun began to sink lower upon the horizon, setting hairline fractures of ochre and violet within the iron gray skies above the snowy highlands, Gisele’s heart sank once more along with it. Shivering beneath her woolens, at last defeated by cold and despair despite the warmth of the watch fire beside her, she turned to retreat back down from the walls, to seek sanctuary within them again. But with her body shifted a half circle, she froze suddenly, from somewhat beside cold, when her keen Elezen sight spied a glimpse of movement in her periphery, far in the distance; only a glimpse, but it was enough. Gisele raced back to the edge of the parapet, squinting against the dying light. 

She knew it was Lord Haurchefant. 

A solitary rider upon a chocobo of deepest black feathers hurtled down the road toward Camp Dragonhead at a breakneck gallop, naught but a speck at first, and growing larger by the moment, shrouded in a heavy cloak as dark as the bird’s plumage. A sudden gust of wind blew back the rider’s cavernous cowl of midnight black to reveal a short nest of silvery hair beneath it, but Gisele did not need the wind to know who it was; her heart soared, for it could be no other. The rider glanced up then, staring directly up at the parapet—at Gisele—for as long as he dared, and her heart pounded in her ears to see those eyes once more, silvery blue as a clear summer sky; faster still, at the dazzling smile that spread across his lips. He lowered his gaze back to the road, and whooped a shout, urging the bird onward as fast as her legs could carry them. 

And when Haurchefant reached the gates at last, he pulled the reins taut, stroking the bird’s neck with a word of endearment, before staring back up at Gisele again. Still astride the saddle, he swept his cloak into a florid and graceful bow at the waist, and bid the chocobo to bend at crooked knee, lowering into a bow of her own, in tandem.

Gisele could not help but laugh in delight at the sight of it, being paid a lady’s homage by knight and steed alike. They rose then, Haurchefant riding past his guardsmen with nary a word or backward glance, for he only had eyes for her. As he did, Gisele gathered up her woolen skirts and fair flew back down the stairs to the courtyard, racing to his side; he swung down from the saddle, his arms spread wide, and she flew into them without a moment’s hesitation. Haurchefant scooped her up rather effortlessly, with a euphoric and playful spin, at last crushing her into an embrace so tight it was like to sap the very air from her lungs.

Nothing on life had ever felt so good.

“Haurchefant!” Gisele cried joyously, clinging to him just as tightly.

“Glad tidings, dear lady!” Haurchefant exclaimed, beaming from ear to pointed ear. “I pray these days have found you well.”

“I thought you might never return,” Gisele said, and buried her nose in his neck. 

At that he chuckled lightly, squeezing her one last time before setting her carefully to the ground. “It was only two days,” he said softly, with a light touch of her flushed, bronze cheek. Gisele’s breath hitched even with so brief a glancing touch. “Did you truly feel so bereft in my absence, my friend?”

“It felt like two years,” she confessed. Even his very scent was a balm to her, her senses filled with oil of clove and the Hannish musk of his cologne, stirring memories of the first time he held her, some nights prior. She inhaled of it deeply, and exhaled a contented sigh. “What news from Ishgard, then? Have you an answer at last?” Gisele asked. 

Haurchefant’s silvery brows furrowed at her question and Gisele felt a knot forming in her fluttering belly at what such an expression might portend. 

“Aye, it is settled. The asylum claim of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn is recognized and shall hereby be honored, by word of Count Edmont de Fortemps,” Haurchefant declared with a triumphant grin; it could have set the twilight sky ablaze, so bright and dazzling it was.

“But how, my lord? I realize that the High Houses are powerful indeed, but does even Count Edmont’s word carry such weight by its lonesome, with Dravanian ire so renewed in its ferocity?” Gisele asked. “Even the sellswords of House Fortemps are denied beyond the Steps of Faith, now.” 

“Come, we shall speak of it inside, and all shall be made clear. I shan’t keep you out here in this dreadful cold a moment longer. Pray, shall we retire to my quarters?” Haurchefant asked gaily.

Gisele’s heart nearly stopped within her breast, her mouth grown suddenly dry, but she nodded her assent. Still reeling from the shock of it all, she watched in idle bemusement as Haurchefant gathered a sack from his saddlebags, then led his fine black steed to one of the Fortemps pages. She trailed after him across the snow-kissed flagstones to the largest building within the fortress, wherein Haurchefant’s chamber of command was found, all the while her mind racing. In truth, for all she kept faith in Haurchefant’s promise, with each passing day Gisele had resigned herself a little more to the notion that she and her comrades were like as not to rebuild the Scions within the Falling Snows of Camp Dragonhead—and indefinitely. How in the world did he manage to accomplish such a feat?

Musing over it thus, Gisele paid little heed to the path they traversed to Haurchefant’s private quarters. Through a discreet side door at the far side of the command room, they followed a curving hallway to a narrow stair, and climbed it in relative silence. At last, when he revealed the apartment he held atop the fortress, Gisele gasped softly for different reasons. 

By contrast to the spartan barracks elsewhere in Camp Dragonhead, Haurchefant’s quarters were large and exquisitely appointed, with furnishings that spoke far less of cold, gothic Ishgard that she expected. These would not seem out of place in the Sultana’s palace in Ul’dah: rugs of priceless Thavnairian silk stretched across the limestone floor and tapestries no less fine hung upon the walls. Gisele’s eyes only made a passing glance at the enormous bed in the next room, with its towering posts and curtains of heavy brocade; her gaze settled upon the great fireplace at the heart of this central chamber. The portrait above the mantle, she recognized from the histories as his distant ancestor, and founder of House Fortemps: Count Flavien, who built this encampment a millennia ago.

Haurchefant set his linen sack by the kitchen, lit the fire with all haste, and gallantly took Gisele’s cloak to hang upon the post by the entryway. With a satisfied nod, he turned back to her, his grin full returned. “Where were we? Ah...yes. Of a surety, t’would not be enough merely to name you retainers of House Fortemps—you and your comrades are still foreign born, and not subject to the strictures of hospitality as such. Nay, to remain in the city at such time requires stronger ties. As such, my lord Count Edmont shall welcome you, Master Alphinaud, and Mistress Tataru as Wards of House Fortemps,” he explained.

“My lord will have his jest,” Gisele said sharply, her violet eyes grown wide.

“‘Tis no jest, my dear lady,” Haurchefant said softly, resting a strong hand upon her shoulder. “Count Edmont means to take you three into his very household, as his personal charges. Fortemps Manor itself shall be your refuge.”

It was a great deal to take in, and Gisele found her knees growing weak. The vastness of such a gift was beyond measure—that the ruling Count of one of the storied High Houses, one of the most ancient and powerful families in Ishgard with wealth and influence to match, a nobleman with whom she held no passing acquaintance, or even shared correspondence would so choose to shelter her, an accused murderess, was inconceivable. And yet...he did. 

And it was all Haurchefant’s doing. 

True to his word, Haurchefant handed her and the other surviving Scions of the Seventh Dawn a haven even beyond Camp Dragonhead. Ishgard itself would be a sanctuary, opened by the Fortemps. When Cid left Gisele and their beleaguered friends upon Haurchefant’s doorstep, even she could not have dared hoped for so brilliant an outcome, or so counted upon his generosity. What had he staked for such a gift, she wondered? 

“You—truly, this is so?” Gisele said, tears threatening to well in her eyes.

Haurchefant’s laughter rang like a bell in the swiftly approaching night, and he squeezed her tightly, half lifting her from the floor again in delight. “Ah, Gisele, did I not tell you House Fortemps does not soon forget her friends? And now you shall be altogether somewhat more!” he exclaimed. 

At that, Gisele did weep; it began as a slow trickle, but soon streamed rivers down her face, her heart swelling in relief and joy by turns. His own was infectious as ever, but there was somewhat more that made her weep: that she should be so welcome in House Fortemps, when she had so little to give. That Haurchefant, this dear, earnest man who embodied every honored precept of knighthood she had ever swooned over while reading romantic tales of chevaliers in the Circle, whose heart bled for his country and his friends by turns...that he should so stake his position, his very reputation—and those of his house—for her sake, simply because she needed him, was almost too much to bear.

Once before, when she had lost everything what now seemed a lifetime ago, Haurchefant extended a hand to her, lighting her a path out of the darkness of despair. Now, when she found herself fleeing yet more blood and greater still betrayal in the desert, he was there once more to guide her, to shelter her, in kindness and devotion unmatched. 

How could she not love such a man, and with all her heart? Gisele Surana had loved others for far less than this, over the years. 

He raised his thumb to her tear-stained cheek, gently brushing away an errant droplet; again her blood was enflamed by so simple a gesture. “Pray, gentle lady...why do you weep?” Haurchefant asked softly. Gisele breathed deeply, gazing up into his eyes.

“Relief, in the main. Joy, also. But I fear I have misplaced my eloquence, Haurche. I cannot find words enough to thank you for this, for everything...”

His answering smile fair shone like the stars above these walls. “I would never cast aspersions upon your eloquence, my friend. But you’ve always struck me as the manner of woman who let her heart speak when honeyed words could not. Should it be any different, now? Besides, it is your true strength, beyond your silver tongue.”

Gisele returned his smile, knowing he was right; knowing  _ this _ was right, and she would no longer permit fear or guilt to bind her. She stood upon the tips of her toes, reaching up to him in yearning; she cradled his cheeks in her hands, flushed with warmth as they were, and found his lips with her own, parting them with said silver tongue. Her knees buckled against him, against the passion she loosed upon him, but his knight’s arms were strong and true as they wrapped about her, without hesitation, and held her tightly. Haurchefant sank into the kiss, plunging his tongue deep inside her mouth, his hands trembling against the warmth of her woolen bodice. And Gisele lost herself to it, to him, her lids heavy; they clung to one another, drowning in each other, giving and taking by turns until at last they were forced to part for air.

“You remind me who I am, Haurche. And I thank you for it,” Gisele said at last, resting her arms about his neck. “For all your kindnesses. I shall repay them one day, I swear it.”

“You owe me nothing,” Haurchefant breathed softly, panting slightly against her cheek. “For all my peccadilloes, I am not that manner of nobleman’s son. I did not play you false when I said it.”

“I know. And I believed you...I believe you still. I would not love you so much if I did not,” Gisele said, smiling into his shoulder.

“Then I did not read you falsely...” Haurchefant mumbled, with a relieved sigh.

“You have been my beacon of hope, these past days, my confidant, my strength when I had none. How could I not love such a man as you?”

Haurchefant stroked her tear-stained cheek with his thumb, and with heavy lids, pressed his lips against her own once more, soft and hot, tenderly rocking against her; sweet and gentle and burning with barely checked desire. It was shared, this yearning, this ache; Gisele knew it then, if she did not before.

“Long have I dreamed to hear such sentiment pass your lips...I only wish it were under kinder circumstances. But I also spoke truly when I said my hospitality was not offered solely out of duty. I must confess that I’ve known naught but indescribable yearning ere you graced Camp Dragonhead in search of Master Garlond’s airship. Mine has been an ache long and without cease. It was for love’s sake that I offered supplies to Revenant’s Toll, not merely the debt I owed you for saving Francel. And it was for love’s sake that I petitioned my father on behalf of the Scions. I would be your shelter, Gisele, for so long as you will it,” Haurchefant declared. He paused, furrowing his brow. “Forgive me for not being more forthcoming, and sooner. I would not intrude upon your grief, now or ever. But I can no longer stay the beating of my heart for you, in the name of propriety. I cannot bear to see you in such distress, and all I wish is to mend your broken heart, to stem the flood of your tears with my love. Forgive me this selfishness, I beg you.”

“Love is a balm upon a wounded spirit, Haurchefant,” Gisele said gently. “And mine is more wounded than most. Do not deny me this.”

Haurchefant lowered his gaze then, clamping his eyes shut, and suddenly—but gently—disentangled himself from her embrace, returning to the hearth in a single long stride. “I...Gisele, there is nothing I wish more, truly. But before I can, there is something you must know, ‘ere you accept such love. You would know it sooner or later, once you dwell within the Manor. But I would have you know the truth from mine own lips, and not from idle or unkind tongues. You must know this man you love, and in full, else I dare not claim myself worthy of it.” He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his hawkish nose.

“What is it?”

Haurchefant opened his eyes once more, and leveled Gisele a furrowed gaze. “Count Edmont de Fortemps is no mere lord to me, but my lord father,” he said. 

Gisele nodded slowly, and suddenly, a dozen things fell into place; namely, how a man who so favored the founder of his noble house did not bear that selfsame ancestor’s surname. Ferelden, backwater though it might have been, was no stranger to these things. Her late, beloved king certainly was not. 

“But your mother was not the Countess de Fortemps,” Gisele said, as delicately as possible. 

“No,” Haurchefant said. “She assuredly was not. My father is the most honorable man I have ever known; and yet, I am the living expression of his frailty. The issue of his sole indiscretion, youthful though it was. Such things are not uncommon, as you might imagine, even among the High Houses. Where my father erred in their eyes, however, was in lifting the bastard get of a scullery maid to the same status of his trueborn heir, and the trueborn son which followed me. I was raised a Fortemps, the same as they. And my existence was ever a canker on my stepmother’s very soul. Not a day passed that she did not let me know as much.”

“Haurchefant...” Gisele sighed, blinking hard. Her thoughts turned, perhaps inevitably, to Alistair and the abuses he suffered at the cruel hands of Lady Isolde, for the merest rumors—ultimately unfounded—that he was Eamon’s bastard, when in truth he was King Maric’s. Perhaps Gisele was overly naive in thinking otherwise, but it pained her still to hear it told, that no matter the world, innocent children should be made to suffer for the transgressions of those who bore them. Much less these two men she so loved, who deserved it least of all.

When he spoke once more, there was bitterness crept into Haurchefant’s voice, unmistakable and dark. “Know you the meaning of my name, love? ‘Tis the fate of all bastards of the Pillars, to be so cast aside by our noble fathers as  _ grey stones _ upon its gilded streets, dull and forgotten. And it would have been mine own fate, had my lord father been anything less than what he is. A fool for love, mayhap. But I do not blame him for it, not any longer. I never knew her, but he loved my mother, as sincerely as he loved his Countess, though he wed for the good of House Fortemps. He did what he must, and made his amends as best he could. And I have fared far,  _ far _ better than most of my heritage. I have lived a life of honor and privilege, as a trueborn would. But the Lady Carine went to her deathbed despising me for silver hair no Fortemps ever bore. Twas she who gave me my name, you see; the price of peace in Fortemps Manor, for the life my father wished for me, though she felt it a mockery of her own. It was a reminder that I would never be the trueborn my father held me to be, not like my brothers. A Greystone  _ could _ never. But I have made such dishonor my own, and with pride. Is it not grey stone from which mighty Ishgard herself is hewn? If I should be a Greystone, then so be it. I shall be one in the wall of my city, defending my people.” 

Haurchefant sighed again, running a hand through his hair before crossing back to her. “Forgive me, betimes I talk overmuch...I only wished for you to know the truth of who I am, even as you wished the same for me. Would you still have me, Gisele, even in this knowing?”

“My Alistair was King Maric’s bastard,” Gisele said, without hesitation, “and Zevran was born to a courtesan in an Antivan brothel. I loved them both beyond description nonetheless. And I never met my own father, wandering the forests of Orlais as he did, with his Dalish clan. Should I think any less of you, who would tear down the sky for me if I so asked?”

“You move me beyond words, my love.” Haurchefant smiled once more, the momentary cloud vanished as quickly as it had come. “Oh, how I’ve dreamed of you walking the grand promenades of our fair city! That you should do so at my side is a blessing of the Fury herself. You shall adore it, Gisele.” 

His joy truly was infectious, and it was nearly enough to make her forget the mountains he moved to make it possible. Still, Gisele was no fool. Not this daughter of the elvhen, born to an alienage. House Fortemps may welcome her with open arms; the other High Houses of Ishgard were another matter. 

“Do you believe it wise, my lord? I care little and less about your heritage, but it is my own status that concerns me...or, rather the lack. I realize House Fortemps’ dealings with adventurers have been viewed as somewhat of an eccentricity, but this—you and I—it would be somewhat more. And I know enough of Ishgardian mores, from conversing with your people here, that ladies of quality are not permitted the manner of life I lead as a Scion. I do not wish to cause you undue grief.”

Haurchefant’s grin was wry and canny. “What do such things matter to a bastard such as I? Long have I endured the gossip of the idle gentry, yet I serve Ishgard and my house with pride, and have honored the name of my father even should I not share it. The eyes of their judgement have never concerned me before.”

“Haurche, I merely do not wish to prove cause for regret. You have said it; you have brought pride and honor to House Fortemps. I could not bear to diminish it.”

Gisele’s breath suddenly hitched within her throat, her heart pounding in her ears, as Haurchefant reached for her, pulling her back into his arms—and fiercely. 

“What cause to regret should I know, with the love of the Warrior of Light? What shame should I know, at the side of the Scion of the Seventh Dawn who brings Garlean legati to their knees, and slays primals as though they were mere sport?” Haurchefant demanded. “A woman so remarkable that Hydaelyn herself plucked her from death’s door, and spirited her to Her bosom, that she might champion another world entire? A woman who fights the wars of strangers simply because they need her aid? How could I possibly regret you, who saved the first man I ever loved simply because he needed you? I could never. And no fool who would dare speak ill of you is worth even the slightest heed.” 

“Oh, love...”

“I would never beg of you to skulk about the shadows of Fortemps Manor. And I would not ask you to be my mistress. You would be my glory, Gisele,” Haurchefant said softly, a heartfelt echo of her very words that first night, spoken in bitterness, turned to tender sweetness by the alchemy of his love. ”You, who walk ever in grace and beauty, could be nothing less.” He slowly pulled away, but only far enough to take her cheeks into hands strong and gentle, leaning down to press his soft lips against her brow with tenderness to make her heart ache, and his fingers drifted up, to slip among her wealth of silvery curls, raking them, clutching fistfuls. By turns his lips caressed her cheeks, her temple, showering her dark skin with kisses a dozen times over, and she clung tightly to his waist with trembling hands. Heat rose in her blood with each one, and she suddenly cursed his armor.

“Haurche,” she breathed, his name caught in her throat, choked thick with want as she brought her hands up, clawing helplessly at the mythrite rings which stood between her and her desire. 

“I would make you my glory this night,” Haurchefant breathed, with no less of his own.

Gisele’s knees buckled, when Haurchefant’s mouth lowered to her own once more, fiercely, and his tongue hungrily plunged into it. She could do little but surrender to it, and what’s more, her body was little more than tinder caught in the blaze of his smoldering passions. She stifled a moan against his mouth, when she felt those strong hands drag down the back of her dress, tugging lightly at her hair, until they gripped her ass in a vice. He half lifted her with one hand, her skirts hiking as he did, and Gisele quivered in his grasp like she never had, clinging to him, melting into him, longing to yield to him like she scarce had with a lover. 

For Gisele had never been the manner of woman who longed to surrender; always, in Thedas at least, her pleasure was made by seizing control, of always taking the reins, no matter the pleasure sweet or darker still. Only once had she ever yielded and permitted a lover to do with her as they would, when Alistair took her in the abyss of the Deep Roads, and then it was to forget the unspeakable horrors they’d witnessed. In Thedas, Gisele was a woman with little control over her life, a City Elf who suffered the daily oppression of shems, then as a mage whose very existence was tightly controlled by the Templars, no matter the world she had carved for herself in the Circle. Duncan pulled her from a gilded cage, only to shoulder a Grey Warden’s dire burden. But in hushed shadows, with bodies entwined, none of that mattered. There, in the bed chamber, did Gisele reign and without question. For a young woman who’d had so few choices in her life, it was a powerful thing to choose the manner of one’s pleasure, to have shems twice her slight elven size and more kneel before her in trust and trembling, to hear them whimper in the strength of her grasp, and beg for release. In the halls of shem power, she was little more than a painted elven whore with the stain of magic in her blood, but in the bed chamber, with those she loved, she was a goddess at whose altar a multitude gladly worshiped. And Gisele reveled in it.

It was different, here in Eorzea. Everything was different. And this night, within Haurchefant’s powerful arms, she understood at last what Zevran meant, when he always said it was the lover who yielded which truly held all the power. Oh, she knew it even then, a world from here, she knew it. But Gisele did not truly comprehend it until she saw it this night, and felt it in the desperation of Haurchefant’s hands upon her, which held a tremor even in their strength. For all his passion, he held back. But a word from her carmine smudged lips, and it would be loosed in truth. She alone held the key.

It thrilled her like little else. 

“And how, my lord?” she said, purring into him. “Of what manner of glory do you speak?”

Haurchefant’s lips found the hollow of her throat, his teeth lightly grazing in their wake, trailing up and down the long line of her neck with a firm, hot tongue. “I would bury my mouth betwixt your thighs and drink of your sweetness til you had none left to give,” he purred between hard kisses of her throat, low and smoldering, his breath hot against Gisele’s neck as he slid a hand between her legs, cupping the thick fabric below her waist. For all the thickness of her woolen skirts, she still felt the heat of his palm pressed against her mound, and her hips rose up of their own accord, desperate for more. His tongue drew hard up her neck once more, but he caught the slim lobe of her pointed ear between his teeth, sharp and bright. “I would sheathe myself in you to the hilt and ride you like a steed. I would wring every onze of pleasure from you, in every conceivable manner, til you beg for merciful release, and are thoroughly spent,” Haurchefant whispered fiercely, directly into her ear, as the hand between their bodies tightened. “And then I would do it all again.”

It was too much for her to bear, his sultry words in all their obscene beauty, his hands, his lips; by now she was taut as a bowstring, desire stoked to a fever pitch. It seemed as though she had never wanted anyone so badly as him; that her body had never craved anything such as it did now.

“Then do so, my lord,” Gisele said, grinding up against his hand. “I beg of you.”

Haurchefant’s hands found the stays on the back of her bodice blindly, without hesitation or a second glance behind her. “Ah, Gisele,” he sighed blissfully, as he pulled back the heavy fabric, sliding it down past her slender shoulders, kissing every ilm of newly exposed coppery brown skin. She gasped with a sharp intake of breath, whimpering softly, when he unhooked her brassiere with a practiced hand and freed her breasts to worship them. With firm hands he cupped their fullness, squeezing them, suckling each of her stiff black nipples by turns, hard and with the slightest hint of teeth, and it set fresh waves of need shooting down her spine. The warmth of the nearby fire against her naked flesh was naught compared to the heat of his tongue upon it, leaving damp trails down her belly. He was agonizingly slow, pulling the dress down the length of her body, crouching lower, at last reaching her waist. “How I have longed for this...” he moaned into her flushed skin, his breath short.

Gisele’s heart pounded faster still, when trembling fingers found the edge of her pantalettes. He teased at them a moment, but pulled her dress down without disturbing them, and she stepped out of it gingerly; Haurchefant tossed it aside as she stepped out of each boot in turn, and he returned to his knees before her, gazing up in no small amount of awe.

“Haurche?” she whispered in confusion.

“Forgive me, if I became lost a moment in your beauty,” he said, with a sensual smile, gently kneading her thighs. His eyes were smoldering, as he stared up at her. “I...betimes I can be rough, in loveplay. If aught displeases you, or frightens you, I abjure you to halt me at once. I did not speak merely out of base lust, when I said it is pleasure I would have from you. And I know that protestation, in playfulness, is part of such games at times. I insist we should make a word of succor, as one does, that our loveplay should cease,” Haurchefant said, with a grave furrow of his brow. “But speak it once, and I shall cease.”

Gisele reached down, slowly running her fingers through his silvery hair, her heart overflowing with love, once more, at the care he showed. He had proven himself worthy of her trust time and again, in so many ways; this was no different. Neither was her word of succor any different. It had ever been the same, since she was a girl first playing such games in the Circle, after stealing forbidden Orlesian books of vice. “Mythal,” she whispered. “But I do not think I should need to speak it, not with you.”

Haurchefant nodded, and smiled, rising to his feet, then effortlessly scooped her into his arms, and princess carried Gisele to his darkened bed chamber. It was silent, save for the whistling howls of the wind outside; the storm had begun in truth, it seemed. With a keen eye, a brief moment of concentration, and a flick of her wrist, the fireplace within was set alight, and the room was filled with the soft glow of a dozen flickering candles.

“That was a neat trick,” Haurchefant remarked.

Gisele smiled, leveling him a smoldering gaze of her own. “Naught but a simple cantrip. I wish to see you, love.”

Grinning like a smug feline, Haurchefant set her down gently upon his massive bed, then shut the door and obliged her. It was effortless, truly, the way he peeled off the ubiquitous gilded shirt of chain mail, tossing it in a heap of mythrite rings beside him, with the padded undershirt to follow. Bereft of his armor, Gisele could at last drink in the whole of his beauty, and it was truly intoxicating. As it turned, Haurchefant was not nearly so wiry as his lanky frame suggested, for beneath the layers of metal and padding lay tautly defined muscles, his entire body seemingly sculpted lovingly and chiseled from marble. Even the half dozen or so scars which laced his torso only added to his allure. It was yet more evident to Gisele when Haurchefant turned his back to her, similarly defined, and bent over to unlace his boots. Her mouth grew dry when he unbuttoned his breeches, and with a deliberate cheeky slowness slid them off—along with his small clothes—to reveal his tightly muscled ass. Gods but he was thick for an Elezen, she thought with a lustful gaze, her thoughts turning to what she might do to it, given the chance. Pert and dimpled, it was as though it were made for her grasping...and more. 

He teased her once, alluding to his quadriceps, but they were very nearly as thickly muscled as Estinien Wyrmblood’s. And to be certain, none of this divine physique could possibly be the product of Haurchefant’s knightly training alone; Gisele had known the pleasures of enough such warriors by now to mark which parts of their bodies were honed by the toils of swordplay and combat, mock or not. She knew it even more when she herself took up the spellblade. Nay, this was the result of deliberate care. An unexpected sign of vanity, perhaps, in an otherwise self-effacing Knight, but Gisele could not fault him for it. Maker only knew he had the right to it, looking as he did. 

And then he slowly turned to face her, and Gisele’s breath was caught in her throat. Towering before her, bare as his nameday, the proof of Haurchefant’s desire was without question, standing high with an ever so slight curve to brush against his belly and the light trail of silvery hair, thick and long and hard as stone. She squirmed a bit on the bed, longing for him to push her into it. 

Haurchefant’s burning eyes locked upon her own, his tongue flickering over his lips. “Does my lady find me pleasing?” He impishly spread his hands wide, with a wolfish grin.

“And how,” Gisele replied, with a wicked little sultry laugh, openly gazing up and down his gorgeous body, with her eyes lingering at last with intent upon his enormous cock, and the dewdrop which formed upon the tip. Playfully, she stretched out upon the thick brocade, resting her arm in the curve of her hip, with her head propped by the other. “Does my lord, in turn?”

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, Gisele,” Haurchefant replied, the light impishness gone from his tone. “Do you trust me?”

She rose up, crawling to the edge of the bed, and rested upon her knees. “With body and soul. With my life,” Gisele replied. Even she was taken aback by the fluttering of her pulse, when she demurely lowered her eyes. “Do with me as you will, my lord, for I shall welcome it gladly.”

Haurchefant crossed the distance to the bed with a single determined stride, and firmly took Gisele by the shoulders, nudging her down onto her back. And he poured his love and desire for her out upon her body once more, as he did in the sitting room, slow and deliberate, but now teeth followed lips and tongue across her dark skin, nipping love bites along her jawline, her collarbone. He hand slid down between them; now there was naught but a thin piece of Ul’dahn silk between his fingers and the heat of her sex, and Gisele’s breath hitched as he teased a single one along the edge of the sapphire fabric, his hand gripping her inner thigh tightly.

“By the Fury, you’re hot as a forge, and wet as the sea,” Haurchefant breathed, pressing said finger into the fabric; it was soaked completely through by her desire, and he made a low growl of undisguised lust at it, cupping her as he did before, with his longest finger stroking her slick cleft through the damp silk. Gisele clung to him, whimpering.

“You excite me like few others have, my lord,” she said, and it was no mere loveplay, not with her blood beating so hot in her ears, hips rising up in desperate need of friction, her slickened pearl throbbing with need. “Please, my lord...it is yours for the tasting, as you wished.”

Haurchefant’s tongue plunged once more into her mouth, hungrily devouring hers, until he raised up, catching her lower lip between his teeth. “I know,” he purred. “But you sound so lovely when you beg. I should like to hear it again, my dear.” Gisele gasped as Haurchefant roughly tore the silk from her body, then held his hand perfectly still against her mound.

“ _ Please _ , my lord,” Gisele pled with him, writhing beneath him as much as his death grip upon her would permit, her thighs squeezing about his hand. “I need you,” she whimpered. 

Haurchefant’s eyes were bright and shining with desire, when Gisele gazed up into them, and he made another low sound of pleasure. “And I you, my love,” he whispered.

With a final kiss, he hefted her up, shifting her further up the bed, to prop her against a veritable mountain of jewel toned silk pillows, then bore down upon her, hungrily kissing his way down the length of her body, hands stroking down her curves until they found her thighs. He spread them wider apart, rather roughly, and settled down between them, sprawling upon the bed, his fingers curiously brushing her wet folds, trailing slick across her thighs, once threatening to lower his head, but rising with an exhale of hot breath dancing along her flesh.

It was merciless, this manner of teasing; a Halonic inquisitor would balk at such exquisite torture as Haurchefant committed upon Gisele. With one hand, he deftly spread her dark folds, exposing the swollen pink flesh inside, though doing little but teasing it with the fingers of his other hand. Not even Leliana was so deliciously, maddeningly cruel as this.

And then, after what seemed an age of such sweet torments, Haurchefant lowered the tip of his tongue to her swollen pearl, pressing it hot and hard against her, caressing it with a single firm lick; Gisele cried out, her back near arching off the bed, her eyes rolling back in her head as she careened dangerously close to the edge. Goaded onward, he rolled his tongue again and again upon her swollen sex, his lips pursed around the nub, suckling it hard.

And, true to his word, he did not stop even after she cried out and ground hard against his mouth, his hand, when the first wave of pleasure crested over her; instead, he roughly flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her up onto her knees, and licked her from behind. His tongue stroked her from end to end, eagerly lapping up her juices. She quivered in his mouth, her knees buckling, and she could not help but bite the pillow in front of her; her flesh too sensitive so soon in the wake of her pleasure, and she gasped as every flick of his tongue set off another aftershock. 

But his fingers, crooking along her cleft, were so deft,  _ too _ deft...Gods, Haurchefant was good. He teased her entrance with the longest again, but this time, pressed it through, sliding it inside her, then another...and another, then out, then deeper inside. Gisele’s back arched, and she found her hips moving back to match the rhythm of his fingers as they slipped in and out of her, her own curling to grip the sheets. No bard ever had so deft a hand as her Ishgardian knight, nor so golden a tongue, and before long Gisele cried out again, when he crooked his fingers to stroke that most sensitive of spots, and she quivered hard against his hand, collapsing upon her stomach. Even then, she wished it was aught beside his fingers stroking her inside to completion.

Haurchefant was gentler then, when he rolled her onto her back; but only a little, for his eyes were aflame, and he held his cock in his hand, shamelessly stroking himself. “I could listen to you do that for hours,” he said. His chin was smeared with her pleasure, as though he had eaten an overripe fruit, and the sight of it was like to drive her almost as mad as the sight of him wantonly pleasuring himself before her. 

“I would return your kindnesses, my lord,” Gisele said, demurely lowering her eyes, and playing the part of the submissive to the hilt. “Please...let me taste you.” 

With a lascivious smile, he silently beckoned to her with his free hand, and she slithered to him on all fours, parting his lips with her tongue; the taste of herself upon his own when they pressed against each other was intoxicating. Haurchefant pulled away, resting back on his haunches, and she slipped her hand around his own, lacing her fingers with his; together, they stroked his cock, entwined hands moving up and down his hot shaft. And as they did, Gisele reached up to find his sensuous mouth again, licking her salt from his lips, before she returned every ilm of worship she received, upon his body. It was glorious, the sounds he made, whimpering and grunting beneath her hand and tongue. Glorious still, when she pulled his hand away from his cock, and replaced it with her thick lips, suckling the broad tip, before, devouring him as deeply into her mouth as she could, ilm by ilm.

Despite what some might believe, there was an art to this, no less intricate than those myriad of the arcane, and Gisele prided herself on her command of this as much as she did her magicks. She studied at the feet of no less a master, after all, in Zevran Arainai. And Gisele employed it with magnificent skill that night, with Haurchefant. Rising for air, she dragged her lacquered fingernails down his tight thigh muscles, her tongue swirling about the tip, as she twisted her hand up and down his long shaft; with the other, she fondled his sack, lightly squeezing it with the merest hint of pressure, before she devoured it too. Haurchefant let out a languid moan then, and she devoured his cock again, sucking him down even deeper into her mouth, and then she felt his hand slipping into her curls again, pushing her head down harder, his hips and thighs rising up off his muscular calves. Before long, he was drilling her eager mouth as much as she was sucking him off, fast and hard, until he cried out incoherently, shuddering in her grasp as his hand tightening in her hair, and she felt him shoot a hot and salty torrent down her throat. Gisele swallowed every drop of it, and rose up smug and satisfied.

Before she could blink, however, Haurchefant shoved his tongue down her throat, hard and deep, leaving her gasping for air again, seemingly just as inflamedx as he was before. Gisele stared down in amazement to see that he was hard again.

“On your back, my lady,” Haurchefant said firmly, and it sent a shiver down Gisele’s spine. How did he coax this from her? Nonetheless, she dutifully complied, laying He stretched his long arm over to the nightstand beside the bed, fumbling inside the mess of a drawer, and found a thin roll of sheepskin. He began to unravel it, but Gisele smiled, and caught his wrist, gently prying it from his trembling fingers.

“‘Tis a lady’s privilege to gird her knight for battle,” she said with an impish giggle. Haurchefant laughed softly, kissing her forehead, and permitted her to do so. She rolled the thin sheath along the tremendous length of his shaft, until he was fully encased; it was a snug fit to be sure, but fine. 

“You are a delightful woman, Gisele,” Haurchefant said, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. “With an appetite to match mine own. I’m beginning to think Hydaelyn brought you here just for me.”

“My lord is too kind,” Gisele murmured, lowering her eyes again; oh but how it inflamed him! She coyly gazed up at him, with a subtle flutter of her long lashes.

“I will show you kindness,” Haurchefant said, low and dark. He gripped her shoulders tightly, roughly forcing her onto her back, shifting her body down the bed, then snatched up her long, willowy legs and threw them over his own broad shoulders. It was neither slow, nor gentle, when Haurchefant spread her nether lips and thrust his cock into her, piercing her to the core, sheathing himself inside her to the hilt, in a single powerful stroke. And Gisele cried out in pain, the sting sharp and sudden; she thought she might well lose consciousness with the strain of his girth, but her mounting desire, ravenous and insatiable, pushed her past the pain until she began to dance the line between it in pleasure. Of a surety, it was intoxicating, this sensation of strain—the most delicious of strains in truth, and she reveled in being so filled by him, inhaling deep the scent of sweat and spent pleasure, and as she did, her body yielded to him, blossoming as a flower. He gazed down at her, his eyes as soft as they were lustful. 

“Give me your word of succor, and I shall cease,” Haurchefant said. 

“I don’t want it to,” Gisele snapped, through clenched teeth. 

He bent down yet lower, pressing his rock hard body tightly against hers, kissing her until his tongue hit the back of her throat.

And then Haurchefant pulled out almost entirely, with only his broad tip stretching her entrance, before he pierced her again, just as deeply as the first time. 

So it began, hard and languid, Haurchefant’s hips jerking up against her, thrusting his cock deeply into her, again and again, without mercy, but he still kept that languorous rhythm. Gisele gasped for air with each hard stroke; fighting to keep her eyes open, upon him, she gazed up to see his own eyes half-shrouded with heavy lids as he lost himself to his pleasure, his hot hands fondling her breasts, pinching her dark nipples. It lit the spark to her own pleasure, seeing him this way, lost to hedonistic abandon, and she writhed beneath him, rolling her hips in tandem. Every so often, without interrupting his rhythm, he bent down to kiss her, moaning into her mouth. 

Then, he suddenly shifted, urging her onto her stomach once more, and just as before, Haurchefant pulled Gisele roughly to her hands and knees, and penetrated her deep from behind. At first, he continued that same hard and slow pace, but it was no longer enough, it seemed, for he dug his fingers into her hips, and began to thrust faster, harder, swatting at her thick ass with a firm and stinging hand. Each time he did, Gisele’s body tingled with renewed excitement, and she helplessly clung to the intricately carved headboard, the sheets far too slippery to hold onto now. She moaned with delight, and tried to thrust back to meet his rhythm, but he growled low when she did, and forced her face down into the pillows; she gasped with the thrill of it. So goaded, he clawed at her disheveled silver curls, until he wrapped his hand about them, pulling her hair as he drilled his cock into her. Gisele was well and truly pinned by Haurchefant, and he hunched over her back, grinding hard and deep.

In the end, she succumbed for a final time, crying out his name, and he careened over the edge soon after, stiffening with a muffled cry into her shoulder. Overcome by exhaustion, Gisele fell onto her stomach, limp and sated, and Haurchefant was soon to follow, sprawling upon on her back like a blanket.

For a long while, they lay there as such, Gisele taking comfort in the radiant warmth of his body; he clung to her, with an arm draped around her, his nose nuzzled in her disheveled curls. 

“I dreamed of this,” he murmured softly into her hair, with a blissfully contented sigh. “Yet I find all my dreams wanting, in the face of it—the true face.”

Gisele smiled into her pillow, then nudged him gently; he shifted dutifully, permitting her to turn over, and she clung to him. “As do I. Haurche, I...needed this. More than I realized. I need  _ you _ . I love you. And in surrender did I understand at last how much,” she said softly.

“I am humbled that you trust me so, my love. I shall ever strive to remain worthy of it. You have my most solemn vow, upon the signet of mine House,” Haurchefant replied, planting a soft kiss upon her dampened brow.

She began to speak, however, she felt a sharp pang in her stomach, and a keening sound emerged from within nearly as loud as the howling squall outdoors. She nuzzled her nose into his shoulder, her cheeks grown hot in abject mortification. 

“When have you last eaten?” he asked gently.

Gisele winced, trying her damndest to bury her face into his neck, even as her stomach snarled like an angry goobbue. “...Noontime, mayhap,” she murmured rather sheepishly.

“ _ Gisele _ !” Haurchefant cried, aghast. “Oh, this simply will not do. It most certainly will not...”

Before she could protest, Gisele unceremoniously spilled onto the sheets, as Haurchefant slid away from her, and rose to find a pair of silken pantaloons hung over a chair in the corner. “I was waiting for you to come back, and lost track of the hours,” she said, wrapping a sheet around herself.

Haurchefant crinkled his nose rather comically, and Gisele stifled a giggle at it, as he scrubbed his hands at the small basin in the corner of the room, splashing water upon them and his face. He beckoned to her once he did, and she followed his lead, wrapped tightly in the bedsheet. “Please, never deprive yourself on my account. But I shall remedy that at once,” he said.

Gisele accepted a small towel from him, then followed him out into the apartment’s kitchen, gathering up and donning her discarded dress along the way. It was substantial, and to her culinarian’s eye, well-stocked with tools, with all manner of coppery pots and pans dangling neatly from a rack. The stone counters were topped with marble, dark and gleaming well enough that Gisele could mark her reflection within the speckled tile. Haurchefant took the apron hanging upon a nearby hook, and ducked his head into it, tying it tightly about his bare torso. To her mild surprise, however, he did not light the cast iron stove before opening the icebox to retrieve the foodstuffs. Like as not, it must have been some manner of fast heating oven; he could certainly afford it. But then her eye caught the glint of light upon steel, in her periphery, and she turned to mark its source: a large, round pot of some sort, only it had a thick black lid with a knob, and the front was covered in all manner of knobs and switches. Machina?

“What is this?” Gisele asked, as she lowered her eyes to see a very familiar insignia stamped into the steel, an orange gear trimmed with black.

Haurchefant was humming to himself as he gathered ingredients from the icebox. He slammed the door shut with his shoulder, carrying a tray full of meat and vegetables to the counter. “Ah! Well, ever since that time we met, upon your first sojourn to Coerthas, I’ve maintained a correspondence with Master Garlond. And, owing to our acquaintance, House Fortemps contracted his Ironworks for some few supplies...machina kettles and the like. Some time ago, when first we began sending materiel to Revenant’s Toll, Master Garlond asked me if I was willing to test a new invention of his, since he knew I practiced the culinarian arts,” Haurchefant explained. He smoothed a hand along the sleek steel side of the device. “He calls this his Ironworks Thermocoil Instacooker. I must confess, my head was fair spinning at his explanation, for it sounded like so much thaumaturgy to my simple knight’s ear. But it purports to prepare in a fraction of time the manner of meals that would take half a day in a conventional oven. And it does. Somewhat to do with heated pressure, or some such.”

Gisele stared down at the knobs and switches with no small amount of fascination. Lominsans would kill to have such a device. “May I help?” she asked.

“You are my honored guest,” Haurchefant protested. But Gisele turned to slip her arms about his waist, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him gently.

“Would you deny me this simple manner of domestic bliss, my lord?” she said with an impish little grin.

Haurchefant chuckled, and with a soft smile, squeezed her a tight embrace. “I would deny you nothing, my love. Very well! Let me show you how to make a roast, in the Ishgardian way.” With a quick peck of her brow, he released her, and retrieved a sharp, exquisitely forged knife from the block, offering it hilt first to her. Gisele made a little gasp of surprise, noting the Hingan script, and the cherry blossoms near the tang. It was a Doman knife, that Higiri once named a Santoku, when Gisele asked to examine her own. They were quite rare in the West, since the Garleans began their brutal occupation of Doma, and turned her forges to arms and armor.

He must have paid a small ransom for it, Gisele mused to herself, as she sliced through the thick top of a carrot as though it were butter, so finely honed was the blade. She glanced beside her, to Haurchefant, and noted that he used a decidedly Western blade as he trimmed the larger pieces of fat from the hunk of roast. She felt her face grow warm, at the realization that he’d lent her his best knife. But it was rather like him, wasn’t it?

“What manner of meat is that?” Gisele asked, as she began peeling the carrot.

“Loaghtan, a species of aldgoat. Coerthans have raised them for meat and milk for generations. Thankfully they are quite hardy creatures, and have adapted well to our endless winter after the Calamity. Their meat can be rather tough, however, which is why the traditional preparations require roasting or stewing under a low flame for hours,” Haurchefant explained. He grinned, washing his hands and knife before turning to scrub small popotoes with golden skins. “By the ingenuity of Master Garlond, we shan’t need nearly so long.”

Together, they made quick work of the vegetables with their sharp blades—mushrooms and leeks in addition to the popotoes and carrots. Gisele stole glances here and there at Haurchefant, and silently marveled at how effortlessly he smashed enormous cloves of Garlean garlic to peel and mince them in blindingly fast strokes. He was every bit as deft with a culinarian’s knife as he was with his sword, and it was a wonder to behold. 

When Gisele sliced lengthwise into an enormous onion, however, her eyes began stinging. Squinting against the tears, she grumbled a quick cantrip, and with a brief burst of aether from her tingling fingertips, a light spray of frost kissed the surface of the onion. And when she sliced a second time, there were no such fumes to blur her vision.

“How ingenious!” Haurchefant exclaimed in delight. “I must confess, the hazards of my profession provide me a rather limited view of the magickal arts. I would never have guessed at such uses.”

Gisele smiled. “Lyngsath said much the same, when first I came to the guild in Limsa. But he had never trained a mage before, as a culinarian. This simple cantrip I learned in the Circle, in Thedas, when I drew scullery duty as an apprentice. ‘Tis the vapor released upon slicing which causes one’s eyes to burn, as an admitted simplification. Frost renders it harmless,” she said. 

“Hmm. I wonder if the icebox would...” Haurchefant mused aloud, nodding. “Well, I have learned something this day, and I am grateful to have so clever a woman! To think, mine beleaguered eyes might never know suffering at the cruel machinations of an onion again! You have my eternal gratitude, oh Warrior of Light.”

Gisele burst into laughter at the sight of his impish grin, and the wink which followed. He was so utterly ridiculous sometimes, and it was one of the many reasons she found him so endearing. Still laughing, she carefully set the knife upon the counter, and made him a grandiose curtsey with her hand upon her heart. “As we say in my homeland, magick is to serve man,” Gisele said, with a giggle. 

The impishness in Haurchefant’s grin faded, his lips curving downward—no longer broad, but soft, and serene. “By the Fury, you’ve the most beautiful laugh I’ve ever heard. It rings like bells in the night. And it warms my heart to hear it,” he said wistfully, and pressed his lips softly against her forehead. Gisele’s heart grew warm and full, and she could not help the titter which rose up from her; she added the onions to the shining steel bowl with the other vegetables, in an attempt to cover it. 

It was terribly difficult to maintain the allure she’d worked so hard to cultivate, that of the worldly and sophisticated Elezen lady adventurer, when Haurchefant’s mere smile perpetually made her feel like a giddy schoolgirl, much less his adoring sentiment. From any other man, it would have been mildly insufferable, a mere ploy. But Gisele did not doubt for a moment the knight’s sincerity. It shone upon his handsome face, and it poured from his mouth. 

“Pray...what next?” Gisele asked, turning her thoughts to the task at hand, before she started to melt again. “Ishgardians brown the meat first, I assume?”

“Indeed we do. Here,” Haurchefant said, beckoning her to the Ironworks magitek pot. He twisted the lid and removed it, and the pot sounded an almost comically cheerful little chime, which made Gisele smile for its signature Garlond sense of hidden whimsy. There were satisfying little clicks and whirring of gears, when Haurchefant pressed a series of buttons, and the machine came to life. “Only a bit of oil. Not too much...”

Gisele nodded, and poured a gil coin’s worth into the pot from a bottle upon the counter. The fragrant scent of pressed La Noscean olives blossomed in the air, as Haurchefant took the minced garlic and mixed it in a small earthen bowl with coarse grey salt, generous grinds of black pepper, and a number of dried herbs—Gisele spied tiny specks of thyme, and needles of rosemary. He methodically patted the salt mixture into the roast, his eyes narrowing in focus as he inspected every ilm to ensure it was thoroughly coated. Once seasoned, Haurchefant unrolled a length of twine and trussed the roast in short order. 

“For one from a landlocked country, you certainly have a gift for knotwork, ser knight,” Gisele mused aloud, pursing her lips, with a quirk of her brow. 

Haurchefant grinned again, his eyes suddenly alight. “You’ve a discerning eye, where such arts are concerned?” he asked.

“Mayhap.”

“Ah, yes. You did mention that assassin, in Ferelden,” he said, his grin broadening. 

“Twine is far too harsh, naturally. I bound him with a length of spidersilk, and interrogated him quite thoroughly. One can never be too cautious, with assassins.”

“Indeed, though I prefer velveteen—‘tis strong enough to withstand the vigors of the process, yet yielding enough as not to injure. Safety is paramount, of course.”

“Of course,” Gisele agreed, smiling coyly. 

With a pair of tongs, Haurchefant lifted the roast into the pot, and it sizzled when it hit the oil, pungent garlic blooming rich and savory in the heated oil; it set Gisele’s belly to snarling again, and she forgot all about their flirtations. He seared the loaghtan for a few moments on each side, until the deep crimson flesh turned a crusty brown, and then lifted it out. Before he could ask, Gisele reached down beneath them and quickly found a curved platter. She held it up to him, and he rested the steaming roast upon it quickly, then gently took the plate from her grasp and set it upon the marble. 

“My thanks, Gisele. I should have had it ready beforehand, but it well slipped my mind. I must say, I’ve never been quite so distracted in the kitchen before,” Haurchefant apologized, as he washed his hands in the basin.

Gisele tilted her head, and fluttered her long lashes rather playfully at him. “Whatever could be so distracting, my lord?”

Then, she felt the sudden sting of a hot towel snapped against her arse, setting her teeth to clamp her lower lip, a futile effort to stifle the involuntary moan that rose up in her throat at the heat and sharpness of the sensation, muffled though it was through her woolen skirt. She spun around, and Haurchefant was rubbing his hands with said towel, innocently whistling. 

“I wonder,” he said, with a sensual smile. He leaned down to give her a quick kiss, then took a few more items from the icebox: a ceramic container of sweet cream butter, a large glass jar filled with dark, rich brown stock, and several sprigs of dark green herbs. Balancing them precariously in the crook of his arm, Haurchefant then fetched a flat wooden spoon from a drawer. 

“May I?” Gisele asked, reaching out her hand. Haurchefant nodded, and once setting down the ingredients, he handed her the spoon. Magitek pot or no, Ishgardian cuisine was, in truth, not so different from that of Orlais, and it was that familiarity which guided her. She scooped out a round of butter with the edge of the spoon, and swirled it with a sizzle in the pot, carefully prying up the deep brown fond as the milk solids loosened it. She watched it melt bit by bit into the rapidly browning liquid, with hawk-like intensity, and then poured the stock into the pot. Her scraping became firmer then, taking care to catch the sides as well as the bottom. It lulled her into a near trance-like state of calm and serenity; cooking always did, these days, which was strange given how often she viewed it as an odious chore in Ferelden, a matter of necessity which distracted her from far loftier pursuits. Gisele bore no great love for it, though food was no less an outlet for her hedonism. It was not until her rebirth, when first she walked into the Culinarians Guild in Limsa Lominsa a freshly invested Scion and Immortal Flame seeking to win the favor of her Flame General through his stomach, that Gisele learned to love the making of it. It was Master Lyngsath who showed her the art of it, with his love and skill for it, and she took to it with as much passion and devotion as anything else she studied. In so doing, she came to understand it as another form of healing, and comfort. 

Her stirring faltered for a moment, the wood trembling a bit in her hand, when she felt the blazing heat of Haurchefant’s body at her back, and his arms wrapped tightly about her waist. She leaned back against him, and he lifted a hand to cover hers around the spoon. “Would it be foolish to confess I dreamed as much of this as you warming my bed?” Haurchefant murmured into her disheveled silvery curls. 

“Mmm. I suppose we must be fools together, then,” Gisele said, with a dreamy little sigh. How could anything could possibly feel as right as this did, she wondered silently. For all the torrid heat of the passion they shared, this, too, was a manner of bliss. There was an indescribable, simple joy she felt being with him, of laughing and trading innuendo, preparing a meal together as though they were merely some smitten young lovers, newly married and basking in the sweetness of simple domesticity. 

Gisele startled herself a moment, with that thought; and yet, she could not but accept it, taking the ardor as it came. In the warmth of his embrace, before the warmth of the kitchen hearth, Gisele believed she could happily live out her days this way. She knew, of course, that it could not be so. Though she be abandoned by Hydaelyn, by whatever strange design of the father wyrm, Eorzea yet had need of her magicks, and her blade. Still, she permitted herself to dream, if only a little while.

She went soft and yielding in Haurchefant’s grasp, and he gently guided her fingers to press a series of buttons on the pot, twisting the knob to set the chronometer. Gisele pouted at the sudden cold when he released her, but her pique was soothed when he kissed the top of her head.

At last, he slowly eased the vegetables into the simmering liquid, and made of them a nest for the resting roast. She, however, twisted the lid back upon the pot, locking it into place with a second chime. “What now?” she asked, curiously staring at the gleaming display. Haurchefant pressed a final button, and she heard another whirring sound.

“Now, we wait for a marvel of engineering to do its work,” Haurchefant replied, untying his apron to return it to the hook. “And—by the Fury, do you hear that wind?”

Gisele frowned, and Haurchefant hefted her up to one of the slender windows; it was rattling violently in the night wind, and even her keen Elezen sight was no match for the howling of snow and ice which churned outside those walls. 

“Will it be safe?” she asked.

“These walls have stood near to a thousand years, and such squalls have proved not uncommon in Coerthas, following the Calamity,” Haurchefant said. “However, it is far too dangerous to traverse the courtyard. Even were I not hopelessly smitten and enamored by your delightful company, I could not in good conscience permit you return to your room this night.”

Gisele snickered softly, low and wicked. “I suppose it’s well enough that I thoroughly enjoy yours, my wanton knight. I might otherwise believe you had ulterior motives in bringing me here, to your private chambers, ahead of a foul storm—”

Haurchefant’s face fell. “Gisele, do you truly believe me so wretched a man? I would never—I did not wish to trap you in my clutches and seduce you, that you had no choice but to—”

Gisele winced, frowning, and took Haurchefant into her arms, squeezing him tightly. “Forgive me, love. I only meant it in jest. If I believed you that manner of lothario, I would never have lain with you. And I would not love you, if I did not trust you. I do,” she said. 

“I know how hot my blood runs. It has always been thus, whether upon the field or elsewhere. I know what I am, and I make no apologies for it, for what I do, I do only for pleasure’s sake—and not merely my own,” Haurchefant said gravely. “I have made lovers of my men, yes, but only those who sought me out, and they know well it shall avail them no favors. And I am no oathbreaker, as my father was. The idle ladies of the Pillars whose lustful gazes meet me every time I return to the manor, yearning for scandalous pleasures with Count Edmont’s handsome bastard? They are turned summarily back to their stern spouses. I take care with those ladies, unencumbered, I  _ do _ so choose—whether they be noble or Brume-born, mercenary or Scion of the Seventh Dawn. I would not repeat the sins of my father.”

Gisele squeezed him tightly. “I would never gainsay your honor, love. Forgive me if I did.”

“I know. And I know it was merely a jest. Nonetheless, I wish to leave not an onze of doubt, for where I stand, and who I am,” Haurchefant said, clinging to her. “I am a hedonist, of a surety, but I have ever striven to be an honorable one, I swear it.”

In truth, there was no doubt in Gisele’s mind or heart, where Lord Haurchefant was concerned, not in this, when he spoke the words she herself had so many times suffering paternalistic lectures from Wynne. The pursuit of love and pleasure was something for which she would never make apologies, for in it she found solace in the face of despair, and the strength to carry on.

There was no doubt that Haurchefant was a kindred spirit, if ever Gisele had one. 

“Ah, Haurche...if only you knew what that means, to one such as I, who suffered the cruel barbs of my peers in the Circle, of human lords. I was naught but a painted elven whore, in their eyes, because I sought pleasure without shame. I was condemned for my appetites more times than I can count. But I, too, am a hedonist, and a proud one, still. If one cannot lose oneself in pleasure, what is left in this life but endless toil and despair?”

Haurchefant laughed softly against her hair, and pulled away to gaze deeply into her eyes. “You are truly a woman after my own heart, my love. I have said these things since I was a lad. Would that any believed them, in this land of endless war. Of course, I must needs look elsewhere, to find one who does. My heart is glad for it—for you,” he said, smiling. “Come, there is still some time yet before our feast is complete. Shall we cleanse ourselves of our earlier handiwork?”

She watched as he strode to the bathing room, a well-appointed chamber dominated by its cavernous stone tub, and he slowly stepped out of the silk breeches he wore, leaving them a pile upon the dark marble tiles. It was not, however, that exquisite tub he turned to; rather the sauna compartment in the corner, closeted off with a door of frosted glass imbued with the crest of House Fortemps. He took a small step up and over the small threshold, and turned the brass knobs upon the wall within, which caused a steady stream of water to fall like rain from the ceiling fixture. 

The soft clouds of billowing steam that rose up from it were naught compared to the heat of Haurchefant’s gaze, leveled upon her through it as he lathered himself with a knot of fragrant soap. Again, Gisele openly drank in his beauty, entranced by the sight of him, with her eyes tracing his chiseled body as the hot water washed over it, leaving droplets in its wake. They lingered past the thin trail of silvery curls down beneath his navel, his enormous phallus again as hard as he’d ever been that night, and it stirred any number of wicked thoughts in her scheming mind. 

He crooked a single finger then, beckoning her to him, but it was utterly unnecessary, for Gisele was already moving towards him—with a slow, deliberate pace. A man so worldly as he surely knew how badly she wanted him, but there was something to be said for savoring the torment of it. She peeled off her dress once more, slamming the door to the bathing chamber behind her, and her senses were filled with heat and the warm, heady scent of lavender. He offered her his hand, and she took it gladly, stepping up into the shower with him; the water was searingly hot, but the sting of the heat felt good against her skin, and she closed her eyes as she let it wash over her. She felt Haurchefant’s hand brush an errant, soaked ringlet away from them, opening them when he tucked it behind her pointed ear. He’d retrieved the lavender soap once more, and rolled it again between his hands, rubbing out more suds.

“How fares your appetite, my love?” Haurchefant asked, as he slowly drew those slick hands along her body, working the lather into her coppery brown skin. And Gisele was trembling in newfound ache, freshly stirred by his slippery fingers skimming her breasts, lifting them with his palms, squeezing them hard in his grasp, toying with her nipples until they grew hard between his fingers. Somewhat in the competing sensations of hot water stinging against her skin, and his strong hands enflamed her like little else, and fresh waves of need washed between her thighs as surely as the water did. 

“I’m utterly famished,” Gisele replied. She gasped for breath when he pinched her nipples hard, and hunched a bit, hungrily sucking on each of them by turns. He rose back up, still fondling her in his grasp, and she hungrily kissed his neck, as if to emphasize the point. He sighed languidly with pleasure, and slid his hands around her taut body, massaging her back, pulling her hard against him,

“I’m feeling rather insatiable myself,” Haurchefant purred low into her ear, suckling the narrow lobe at the base. His cock was pressed tightly against her, hard and thick. “How shall I serve you this time, my lady? How do you wish to be sated?”

“You vowed to please me in every manner. Are you not a man of your word?” Gisele whimpered her response; whimpers that turned to moans, when his strong hands gripped her ass tightly, and he drew a searching finger down the part of her cleft.

“You ache for surrender, do you not? It drives you mad with want,” he breathed heavily against her skin, rubbing himself shamelessly against her thigh.

“Never have I, with any other,” Gisele said softly, her own hands drifting up and down his back. “But with you, I—”

The very words were stolen from her throat, and she gasped, as his finger slid across her nether lips, parting them from behind, and he stroked her with a languid caress. 

“Tell me,” Haurchefant whispered, with a hint of a low growl. “I would know.”

Gisele’s hips rose up involuntarily, her body aching for more friction than his tormenting would permit. “I yearn to surrender. I yearn to lose control,” she breathed. “I yearn to be ravished until I cannot stand. And never have I wanted such things, until I met you.”

Haurchefant’s mouth hungrily found her own, and he plunged his tongue down her throat, his hand tightening around her ass in a vice grip. She thought she would drown in him, as he stole the air from her lungs, and steam engulfed their entwined bodies. He pulled up, panting, half lifting her with one hand, as the other pulled back her head by a fistful of white curls and exposed her neck for his lips and teeth. “I shall unravel you,” he moaned against her throat, lightly fingering her entrance from behind, with the tip of his finger. And then he pushed her back to the wall, the stone surprisingly warm against her bare skin, and he kissed his way down her body, lingering upon her nipples again, sucking them hard by turns.

Gisele lifted her leg to rest upon his broad shoulder, and Haurchefant buried his mouth between her thighs, hungrily lapping up her juices once more, his hawkish nose nuzzling her dampened curls, sending her eyes rolling back into her head. She rocked her hips to match his rhythm, riding his hot tongue hard, shivering with every wet stroke of it against her swollen clit. She moaned as the delicious tension built with every caress of his tongue, but each time she reached the precipice, he pulled her back, slowing his pace. 

She reached up, spreading a hand against the stone above her, pushing hard against the wall, until finally he pursed his lips and suckled her clit hard; Gisele cried out, and nearly lost her footing, but Haurchefant’s grip on her was too strong to let her collapse. Instead, he ducked from beneath her leg, and stood towering over her once more.

“On your knees, my sorceress,” Haurchefant said, his voice ringing with the timbre of command, and utterly thick with lust. With sinewy grace, he slipped behind her, changing places, and leaned back against the hot stone tiles, his cock held loosely in his hand. “I would have your surrender.”

In an echo of his own movements, Gisele sank to the smooth limestone tiles before him, but unlike him, it was with the trembling of a supplicant, and not the pride of a conquerer. How strange it was for a woman of her dominant appetites, but it sparked a fire within her she did not know was there. With wanton abandon, she worshiped him with her thick lips and an eager tongue, suckling his broad tip, sliding her hand up and down his lengthy shaft. And with heavy lids, he wrapped his hand within her hair once more, gripping it tightly, as he threw back his head, and pumped her mouth with his cock.

When at last he cried out her name in ecstasy, Haurchefant shot an even greater torrent down her throat than the first time. And Gisele licked the remnants from her lips, grinning up at him.

“Who is unraveled, I wonder?” she lightly teased him, before kissing his powerful thigh muscles in turn, and rising back to her feet. 

Beneath the steaming spray of water, they held each other, their tongues meeting salt with heat, and they savored the taste of mutual pleasure upon their lips. Gisele marveled, not for the first time that night, at how they found that language of intimacy with such ease, with sensual hands and amorous mouths. It was beauty enough to make her weep, the love in his gentle touch, in his lips against her skin. There was no urgency to it as such; merely simple yearning for ever more.

“You are magnificent,” Haurchefant sighed in content, nibbling at her clavicle with the faintest hint of teeth. “I’ve not known pleasure like this in some time. I do not wish it to end.”

“Nor do I,” Gisele murmured. 

“How you quivered when I took you from behind,” Haurchefant said wistfully, as he gripped her ass again, cupping her taut cheeks and squeezing them. “I shall give you all you desire, and more. For I mark one way I have not yet pleased you, and I yearn for it.”

“Oh?” Gisele asked with feigned innocence, for she knew well of what he spoke, the way he spread her as he said it. The very thought of it made her ache again.

“I would ride this lovely bottom of yours until it grows raw,” Haurchefant moaned, setting a cheek to quivering with a powerful, stinging smack of his palm. Gisele gasped in delight, and he wrapped an arm about her waist.

“It thrills you, does it?” Gisele asked, her breath hitching as his fingers drifted to the rear of her cleft once more. She found herself spreading her trembling legs, grinding her mound against his powerful thigh.

“Tis all I can think when I see it,” Haurchefant said, idly stroking her. “Surely, you‘ve known such pleasures before, my love. I can’t imagine anyone fortunate enough to be your lover could deny them.”

“Mmm, I give them freely. but rarely have I taken them,” Gisele replied, grinding a bit harder.

Haurchefant nodded. “Do you not care to receive, then?”

“No, I...have not had the chance so much, is all. I am too good in the giving, I suppose,” Gisele answered with a wry grin.

Haurchefant made a wicked laugh, and kissed her, long and languid. “Mayhap one night, I should like to take the measure of your skill myself,” he said with a dreamy sigh. “But not this night. This night, you are  _ mine _ for the taking.”

Gisele found herself gently turned away from him, and he came up behind her, a beacon of heat. His arm lightly brushed her hair as he reached up high to a shelf above her, but she could not see what he was reaching for, and did not know until she felt the warm slickness of fragrant oil poured down her skin, slipping down the warm crevice of her lower cheeks. Haurchefant’s calloused fingers followed, finding her puckered entrance, teasing circles around it, and Gisele gasped at how very sensitive her flesh was there. It seemed Elezen were much the same as elves, in that regard. And then she felt his tongue slip into her ass, in a deep, wet kiss, and her eyes rolled back into her head.

With deft fingers and a warm tongue, Haurchefant stretched and prepared her with the utmost care, for what seemed a blissful age. Gisele lowered her own hand between her thighs, teasing her clit with her own fingers in anticipation. And then, at last, he rose up to his feet, looming over her from behind, his fingers still slipping in and out of her. He only moved his hand to replace it with his stone hard cock, rubbing it up and down her slick cleft.

“Do you want this, Gisele? Do you want me inside you?”

“Yes,” Gisele pleaded, her voice choked with need. 

“Give me your word at the slightest inclination,” Haurchefant whispered firmly into her ear. 

Gisele nodded. She could not help but hold her breath, when she felt the blunt head of his cock, sheathed once more in slick lambskin, brushing against her entrance, and cried out when it pierced her slowly.

It was greater pain still, and for a moment, succor danced upon her tongue, so great was his girth stretching her, but Gisele grit her teeth, and did not give it; once more she danced the line of pain and pleasure and found the balance between them, striding it in transcendent bliss. Unlike before, Haurchefant did not shove himself inside her without mercy; instead, he eased himself in, ilm by ilm, going deeper with each roll of his hips, his strokes steady and slow. When he sheathed himself at last, he stood still a moment, his strong hands gripping the curve of her hips tightly, and Gisele luxuriated in a sensation of fullness unlike any other, pushed to her body’s very limits.

“Sing for me, my dove,” Haurchefant breathed into her ear.

She did, as surely as any bard, again and again, her blissful cries reaching higher octaves still as he slowly ground his cock deep into her ass. Haurchefant kneaded it with his hands even as he rode it, massaging her thick cheeks, smacking them hard, squeezing them, and each time it made her clit throb that much harder. Gisele swirled her fingers on the slick pearl in slow circles, pleasuring herself in time to the languid rhythm of his strokes, jerking her hips along with his thrusting. With Elezen grace, he lost none of that rhythm, when he brought his hands up to squeeze her breasts, clutching them with firm, strong hands, and pinching her hard black nipples, even as he pierced her deeper and deeper with his shaft. It proved too much, when thumb and forefinger caught them tight, and Gisele shuddered, coming hard against her own hand. But it wasn’t enough...she craved more, and he would not stop until she had her fill, for it goaded his own pleasure onward. 

Haurchefant brought his hands back around, and pressed hard against Gisele’s back, his hips jerking harder, faster, until he was utterly pounding her into the wall. He braced an arm against it for leverage, over her head. It only aroused her more, and then his other hand replaced her own, roughly palming between her thighs to rub her clit as his cock pierced her ass. His longest finger found her other entrance, soaked with oil and want, and he slipped it in and out of her in time to his strokes, working her at both ends with the deftness of a virtuoso. Overwhelming pleasure washed over every ilm of her body in relentless waves, as he penetrated her both ways, with slender fingers and his thick cock, probing her, filling her ass and her throbbing cunt, overwhelming her senses with hedonistic bliss. And he fulfilled his vow to ring every onze of it from her, riding her until she was thoroughly spent, her breath ragged, whimpering softly into the heated stone. He stiffened shortly after, his body shuddering against her in pleasure, and he came hard inside her, screaming an incoherent cry.

They stood still beneath the steaming water for a long while, Haurchefant cradling Gisele from behind, holding her tightly, whispering endearments to her. He pulled away only to gently turn her to face him once more. He bent down to plant a tender kiss upon her forehead, smiling serenely down upon her.

“Our feast is likely waiting for us by now,” he said.

Gisele froze, her eyes widening a bit in horror. It had utterly been driven from her mind, in the wake of their renewed passions. “By the Twelve, I hope it isn’t cold, or worse yet...I pray it did not burn...”

Haurchefant’s smile turned reassuring, then. “The pot has a failsafe. When the cooking cycle completes, it keeps the food warm rather indefinitely. Master Garlond said he included it due to his own occasional absentmindedness. Betimes he loses himself in his tinkering.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what that could be like,” Gisele chuckled in mild self-deprecation. “Let us wash in earnest now, however pleasant this might be. I don’t trust my legs after all that, and I’m starving.”

With a tired laugh, Haurchefant kissed her soundly, and together they quickly lathered up and washed away the remnants of their evening trysts. That they managed to do so without inciting any further spoke more to their exhaustion than anything. Gisele still could not manage to keep her hands off him as they did, and the feeling was entirely mutual on his part. 

Still, they finished, and Haurchefant shut the water off, aiding Gisele over the threshold. He fetched a pair of towels and made certain to wipe her down first, though he was dripping wet. She had no idea how he could stand it, as freezing as the night air was outside the cozy confines of the shower with its heated hypocaust. It was all she could do not to shiver, as she worked the thick cream of his lotion into her skin, relishing the scent of clove and pine. He briefly ducked into the bedchamber nearby, and rifled through the large armoire in the corner, retrieving a small pile.

“Forgive me, but this is the best I can manage for you, I think,” Haurchefant said, holding up one of his shirts. Gisele lowered a discerning gaze upon it—she could not help her professional curiosity—and though it was quite simple in design, it was clearly exquisitely tailored, woven from the finest fleece, with the unicorn crest of House Fortemps delicately embroidered upon the lapel as a striking accent of color upon the bone white cloth. She ran a finger along the tightly-packed scarlet threads, marveling at the skillful execution, and the elegance of the stitch work all along the garment. For all her preference for the ostentatious in fashion, betimes there was something to be said for the beauty of simplicity and fine craftsmanship.

“Thank you,” Gisele said. “It’s lovely.”

When she pulled it over her head, of course, she was swimming in it. In Ul’dah, a city teeming with Hyur and diminutive Lalafell, Gisele believed herself tall. But she was quickly disabused of that notion when first she walked the forests of Gridania, where she realized she was short by Elezen standards, barely taller than a Miqo’te. And the Elezen of Ishgard were taller still; men and women alike towered over their counterparts from other lands, as much as the Abalathian mountains in whose shadow they dwelled. Haurchefant was no exception, and the end result was his shirt became something of a tunic dress upon her comparatively smaller frame. Without laces to bind it, the collar was far too loose, and in the end, Gisele let it slip to expose her coppery brown shoulder. 

Still, there was somewhat in it that warmed Gisele’s heart to see it reflected back in the mirror. His earthy scent, now so familiar, was embedded within every fiber. She inhaled of it deeply, and could not help but wrap her arms about herself, her body still sore with the memory of him within her. 

Mayhap Haurchefant felt the same way, for unshed tears stood in his eyes, when he gazed down upon her, garbed once more in silken pantaloons of ebon black. He went to her, drawing her into an impulsive embrace. “It suits you, my love,” he said softly, and took her damp cheeks into his hands, brushing his lips across her face with half a dozen kisses. He reached over, to pick up the thick woolen socks that fell to the carpet when he first held up the shirt. “Don’t forget these! I feared your feet would grow cold,” he said.

Gisele giggled, and when she sat to put them on, they were even more comically oversized on her delicate feet than the shirt was on the rest of her. Haurchefant’s feet were enormous by comparison. Still, she made the best of it, and they  _ were _ incredibly warm, lined with thick layers of fleece. “Bless you, Haurche. My toes feels better already.”

“Good! Let us away to the kitchen!”

She did not need to be told twice. 

When they returned once more to it, however, Haurchefant did not venture back to the magitek pot, rather he strode to the icebox and retrieved a large, leafy head of verdant green.

“Gysahl?” Gisele asked curiously, as he began peeling and rinsing the tightly packed leaves in the wash basin. 

“Nay, though they are related. These are wild chysahl greens, from the Central Highlands. They are quite a bit less bitter, with a peppery quality,” Haurchefant said. “I promise it will be scarce but a moment.”

True to his word, he snatched a pot from a hook above the cast iron stove, and wilted the greens in boiling water for only a moment, before dumping them into a bowl. He turned to make for the icebox, but Gisele lightly placed her fingers upon the stainless steel, and uttered a brief incantation; her fingers grew icy, and a hint of frost spread across the water, chilling it. 

“There,” she said in satisfaction. 

Haurchefant smiled. “You are as indispensable as you are utterly ravishing, my love,” he said. 

To Gisele’s surprise, the contents of Cid’s ingenious pot were still lightly steaming when Haurchefant twisted off the lid. Her senses were filled with the rich scent of simmering meat and gravy, and it set her stomach to growling again in hunger. He moved apace, however, retrieving a pair of plates upon which he laid a bed of the blanched greens, followed by slices of roast and vegetables swimming in delectable sauce. Each was topped with a curl of that distinct Ishgardian butter, grassy and sweet, and he carried them to the small table in the sitting room. It was service simple but elegant that he set down, with finely engraved silverware, and a bottle of wine. 

“Dinner is served, my lady,” he said, with a grandiose bow. With a flourish, he winked at her, holding out her chair. 

“My lord is too kind,” Gisele remarked, with a light giggle. 

A rich red wine he poured for the two of them, before he sat across from her, and he held his silver goblet aloft in a toast. “To new beginnings, and the blessing to name my love the bravest adventurer Eorzea has ever known, a sorceress as beautiful as she is daring, with the sinuous grace of a coeurl and the most supple of curves, who has stolen my heart like none before her,” Haurchefant said, with a suitably impish smile.

Gisele returned it, and raised her glass. “To my Lord Haurchefant Greystone, who has ever been my beacon of hope in this, the darkest night I have known,” she said.

Haurchefant’s silvery blue eyes were alight at it, and their glasses touched with a light clinking.

At last, they partook of their small feast, and it tasted of warmth and comfort, savory and rich. Gisele did not need a knife, in truth, for the loaghtan was so tender it fell apart with the slightest touch of her fork. But it was neither the delectable meat, nor the flavorful taste of the vegetables, salty and mildly piquant from the cracked black pepper, which made the meal so delightful; it was the love therein, savored with every bite, for Haurchefant poured it into the pot as surely as he did that first night. 

There was nothing Haurchefant did which did not sing of the great passions he held within his heart and so eagerly shared with the world, and Gisele realized that was the very essence of who he was—the singular quality which so enthralled her, more even than his handsome mien, or his wicked wit, or his prodigious skill with blade and shield. Alphinaud once said, when they first agreed to aid in the hunt for Lady Iceheart, that Gisele and Haurchefant were well matched. Would that the lad knew how much; would that  _ she _ had known, as much as she believed she did at the time. 

And as they ate before the hearth, his private chambers rang out with sensual laughter. They spoke of inconsequential matters, then, trading flirtatious innuendo and loaded glances, sharing tales of their exploits upon the field and the bedchamber alike. Nothing so weighty as on that first terrible night passed their lips, and they merely enjoyed the simple pleasures of one another’s company. With the passing of many winters to come, Gisele would never forget the joy she felt thusly, gazing into his eyes and seeing such joy and affection reflected. Everything then was etched upon her memory, with no need of Echo or incantation: the slow blink of his eyelids, the richness of his laughter, the effortless grace of his every gesture, the way his damp skin gleamed like porcelain in the candlelight.

It was this night, in all its magic, that Gisele Surana knew beyond all manner of knowing or any doubt that she was hopelessly in love with Lord Haurchefant Greystone, and that she would gladly spend the rest of her days with him.

When they had at last finished the main course, Haurchefant rose and cleared the table; Gisele made to rise, thinking to aid him, but he leveled her a stern, furrowed gaze, and she lowered back to her seat with a light laugh.

“I only wished to help,” Gisele said, with an exaggerated pout.

Haurchefant smiled at her. “I know, and I would not spurn your generous offer. But this night, I would care for you my lady—and those to follow,” he said. “I’ve a promise to fulfill, besides.”

“Hmm?” Gisele asked, with a curious head tilt. She watched as Haurchefant once more went to the icebox, and retrieved a small box from within. When he returned to the table, it was with two small plates, each bearing an intricately wrought pastry: a pair of choux, not unlike éclairs (though round), stacked atop one another in the manner of a small tower, draped with ganache of chocolate, and crowned by a small pip of gilded frosting.

“When I left for Ishgard, I vowed to bring back pastries for you from our finest markets. And you charged me with the particular requisition of chocolate, did you not?” Haurchefant asked, grinning. “Well, a knight lives to serve, my lady!”

Gisele was rendered somewhat speechless. Truly, she had spoken half in jest that night, a bit of sarcasm to cover the abject despair she felt at being so soon bereft of his soothing presence. She had not expected him to pay such words heed, much less to fulfill the rather absurd request. Still, she should not have been so surprised that he did; it was simply the kind of man Haurchefant was.

It was why she loved him so.

“Let none protest but you are a paragon of knighthood, my lord,” Gisele said, after a demure bite. The choux was light and delicate, filled with a decadent ganache filling much the same as the crown, sweet but not cloyingly so. With a delicate finger, she swiped the tiny piping of frosting from the top; buttercream, she noted with satisfaction when it hit her tongue, the perfect consistency. It may well have been the most delicious dessert she had ever tasted, in truth. “What is this called, love? It’s delightful.”

“Tis  _ religieuse _ , a confection unique to the Holy See, and thus named for the tall mitres worn by the higher ranked priests of Halone,” Haurchefant explained. The bite he took of his own was decidedly  _ not _ demure, for he near devoured half of it. Gisele was more circumspect in her devouring, though her enthusiasm was no less than his. 

At the last, she laughed, for the crumbs which formed at the corners of his sensual mouth, and she reached across the table to dab at them gently with her fine linen napkin. “You’ve quite the sweet tooth, my lord.”

Haurchefant sighed in dreamy content. “Indeed. But you are the sweetest of treats, my love. I only wish I could partake yet again of your honeyed delights, but alas, I am thoroughly spent this eve.”

“As am I,” she agreed.

“Let us retire then.”

Gisele’s body was limp and sore, but she felt a peace she had not known for some time, as she sank into the soft pillows, and then into Haurchefant’s waiting arms. He held her tenderly, pressing his lips to her temple softly, then her cheek, then her own mouth.

“Sleep well, my lady,” he whispered.

And she did.


	4. Chapter 4

The steely light of dawn broke fair through skies of wintry gray, the next morning, and Gisele stirred with it, her eyes fluttering to look upon the face of Lord Haurchefant, who gazed at her with warm blue eyes wide and alert. She remembered then, what transpired the night prior; the satisfied ache of her body bore the memory of it, the truth that it was no mere fever dream.

“Fair morning, my dove,” he said softly.

“How long have you been awake?” she murmured.

“I always wake before first light, and have since I was a lad. I must needs attend to the vigors of training, of course. Though upon this most joyous of mornings, I found myself quite unable to leave the warmth of my bed, for once,” Haurchefant said, with a wry little grin.

“Gracious me, what would your men think, if they knew their lord commander so lackadaisical in his duties, that he should neglect his exercises?” Gisele asked.

Haurchefant’s eyes narrowed. “They would burn hot with lust and envy by turns, thinking on you...on us.” Gisele shivered in delight, as he leaned in, and he found her neck with his hungry mouth. “Ah, forgive me, my love. You are so utterly tempting here in my bed, so warm and soft.”

“What is there to forgive?” Gisele murmured, running her hands through his disheveled hair, as he found the hollow of her throat with lips and a warm tongue. She moaned softly, drifting her hands across his broad shoulders, stroking his long and sinewy back, tracing his chiseled muscles with her fingers. “You are the greater temptation here, my strapping knight. But there is no reason you cannot take your exertions here, is there?”

Gisele’s hands slipped beneath the silk of his breeches, drifting along his taut rear, fingers swirling the dimples, before slipping around his thickly muscled thighs to lightly curl her fingers about his rigid shaft. Haurchefant’s breath hitched in his throat, his lids grown heavy, his lips half parted, and he mirrored her movements with his own strong hands, reaching beneath the cavernous shift to knead her supple skin, till he found her thighs, and his own fingers crooked between them.

It was slow and languorous, this encounter, with none of the fevered urgency of the evening, merely deliciously languid caresses, soft and aching sighs, and warm hands deftly rousing each other’s amorous bodies beneath the thick brocade. So entwined, in a tangle of long, graceful Elezen limbs, there was no marking where Gisele ended and Haurchefant began, hips grinding heat in a lazy rhythm against one another. The sweetest endearments flowed from Haurchefant’s lips in hot breath against her ear as he plumbed the depths of her desire, his calloused knight’s fingers deft and tender. Gisele melted into his exquisite touch, sparking the tinder of her desire like nothing else on life, and she hungrily parted his lips with her tongue, softly moaning into his mouth, stroking and stroking him, eager to return every onze of the pleasure he so effortlessly roused in her. 

And Haurchefant was the first to unravel, in the end, tensing in her loving grasp, moaning against her neck, and she felt a hot gush upon her hand, splashing against her thighs. But Gisele soon followed, surging against his hot palm, with a final roll of her hips. And she buried her nose in the elegant line of his long neck, clinging to him, drinking in his warmth.

Gisele never wanted to leave him.

“I wish to stay with you, Haurche. Until such time as we make for Ishgard,” she declared, after a long silence, and suddenly the thought of leaving Camp Dragonhead was altogether far less appealing, even if she understood the necessity of it.

“What I have, is yours. I did not play you false when I said it,” Haurchefant said, stroking her curls. “It will take some days as yet for my father to complete the preparations, and obtain the proper papers for you and your companions. Until then...my chambers are yours.”

With one last kiss, he bid her rise, and together they made ready to greet the day.

A hush fell over the war room, when Gisele emerged from the stairwell at Haurchefant’s side. She froze a moment, her palms grown clammy, her heart beating in her ears at the bevy of curious stares leveled her way. Perhaps it was too much to hope for that the chamber would go unoccupied, for though the hour was still early as yet, a number of knights milled about the war table, chief among them Ser Yaelle, Haurchefant’s dry second. She briefly grinned slyly at Gisele, but said nothing, rather smoothly bowing to her commander as he took the great chair behind his desk.

“Ah, good morning, Yaelle. Please inform the Lady Ninne that Mistress Surana shall henceforth be my personal guest, and I shall see to her care,” Haurchefant said. He leaned forward, propping his elbows upon the table. “We shall also require the presence of Master Alphinaud and Mistress Tataru. I bear news from Fortemps Manor.”

“At once, my lord,” Yaelle said, standing to attention.

Alphinaud and Tataru entered mere moments later, with breathless anticipation.

“What news, my lord, from the Holy See?” Alphinaud asked.

Haurchefant beamed, and unfurled the whole of it: that Count Edmont himself would name them Wards of House Fortemps, this unlocking the city to them. Tataru squealed in unbridled joy, leaping with her arm in the air, and she hugged Alphinaud tightly; it spread warmth across Gisele’s heart to see it, and eased the brief pang of guilt she felt over not having told them herself, so lost she was in her own passions the previous eve.

“I must caution, however, that it shall not be as simple as his lordship speaking the mere word. There are strictures which must needs be upheld, and legalities to be marked, forests of trees to be slaughtered for the necessary parchment, and such,” Haurchefant said dryly. “It will take days as yet for the matter to be so settled. Until such time as we receive word that the task is completed, however, you are most welcome to continue enjoying such hospitality as Camp Dragonhead has to offer, my friends.”

“Oh, thank you, Lord Haurchefant! A thousand times, thank you. I swear to you, we shall repay this great kindness, and shan’t be a burden,” Tataru said.

Alphinaud bowed graciously. “I do so share my comrades’ sentiment, my lord. Ours is a debt which might never in truth be paid, but of a surety, I shall try.”

Haurchefant smiled at the pair. “A knight lives to serve, my dear friends.”

Thus did Gisele’s sojourn within the ancient walls of Camp Dragonhead unfold in earnest. 

By day, she occupied herself with the study of the crimson arts, honing her swordplay; she’d no shortage of sellswords and House Fortemps knights alike seeking to cross blades with her, after the tales Haurchefant told of her deeds. Just as she had when she awaited his return, Gisele expressed her profound gratitude to House Fortemps by lending her great skills to its defense. Oft she joined the knights on patrols, and at Haurchefant’s behest, imparted to them what she could of her unique fighting techniques, while aiding the conjurers who kept them hale.

But her nights…they belonged to Haurchefant and to her, in untamed passion and sensual ardor; those nights belonged to they, and they alone. Together, they lived a whirlwind fantasy far beyond even the wildest romantic dreams of Gisele’s youth, the lady and her devoted knight. They poured their great love out upon one another, wanton and unfettered; within the cavernous bath, upon the desk in his office, Gisele gave herself in surrender, and Haurchefant claimed her gladly. In his powerful arms did she forget her sorrow; the despair of the desert ebbed from her, as she was cradled in the warmth of his love. 

And, true to his word, his vow made in conviction, Haurchefant did nothing to hide his feelings for her. While he did not precisely throw all discretion to the wind, neither did he especially make an attempt to obscure his great affections for her, and in truth he could not even if he wished, for he could not help but wear his heart upon his mythrite sleeve, and it beat for her without question. There was no hiding the depths of his yearning, not with the ardent glances, the lingering touches, the tranquil sighs. Nor could Gisele be any less demonstrative, being the woman she was.

The knights of House Fortemps and their allies at Camp Dragonhead had long viewed their eccentric lord with affection, for his skill upon the field was unmatched, and he cared deeply for his men and treated them well. Little heed was paid to his dalliances, save a bawdy, good-natured jest or two, and though she had ingratiated herself well among them, she was no different in this respect. 

As Lady Ninne said wryly, Gisele was not the first adventurer to find their way to Lord Haurchefant’s bed chamber, and most certainly would not be the last. She was, however, the first to truly dwell within it, and this was noted with no small amount of awe. 

“Little did I know just how fond he was of you,” Alphinaud said a bit archly, one morning a week or so hence, after he and Gisele made their rounds in the infirmary, aiding the overtaxed healers. There had been a brutal melee just outside the northern gate, at daybreak, upon the road leading to the heretic-occupied Steel Vigil. By the time the alarum was sounded by the sentries, a pack of vicious Aevis had nearly torn apart the patrol. Gisele and Alphinaud stabilized the wounded knights with their healing magicks, and took their rest within the intercessory.

Gisele raised a silvery brow at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to sound so unkind,” Alphinaud said, wincing. “I only meant that Camp Dragonhead is not so large, my friend, and you are the talk of it—you, and its beloved commander.”

“Indeed.”

“Your affairs are your own, of course, but I confess, I fear for you. Know you that Lord Haurchefant is the illegitimate second son of Count Edmont?” Alphinaud said gravely. 

“I do. As he knows that I am no mere shell-shocked veteran of Carteneau,” Gisele said sharply. Alphinaud’s eyes grew wide, and he blinked slowly in surprise. 

“You...told him?”

Gisele nodded. “He deserved to know with all certainty for whom he stakes the honor and reputation of his House. Much less whom he loves.”

“Your relationship could prove a most fraught complication indeed, if we are to dwell within Fortemps Manor. Much less how it may be perceived by the other High Houses, with all their attendant prejudices,” Alphinaud mused aloud, with a little sigh. “Still, I suppose it may be used to our advantage—”

Gisele’s face grew warmer, her blood boiling within her veins at the casual disregard with which he spoke of her, as though she were a mere pawn upon his board. Had he truly learned nothing, from his arrogance? 

“Alphinaud Leveilleur, I shall speak plain: my affairs  _ are,  _ of a surety, mine own, and I shall conduct them as I see fit, as I ever have. Yes, I have taken Lord Haurchefant as a lover, for he has long born me fondness, and I have long returned it. He is a comfort to me, my solace. And Urthemiel shall strike me dead a second time before I shall seek the blessing of a Sharlayan lordling with delusions of grandeur upon it,” she said with icy indignation.

Alphinaud stiffened, his eyes grown wide. “All I ask is that you have a care, Gisele! You are the Warrior of Light, upon whom all hope for Eorzea rests. Your life is not your own, and your actions have consequences beyond your own pleasure!” he snapped. 

“I am no mere sheaf in your grimoire, Alphinaud. I am not your tame lioness, to hunt at your pleasure, to set upon your foes at will. I am a woman, one ten summers your elder, who has lost far more than you could ever know, in this life and the last. I will not beg your leave to find an onze of happiness. I watched my friend die. One by one, I watched all the others leave me, to save me. How dare you,” Gisele spat. 

“ _ What _ is all this fuss about?”

Gisele and Alphinaud turned in tandem to see Tataru standing aghast at the doorway.

“Tataru! I—we...”

“That is, to say—”

Tataru balled up her tiny hands into fists, and placed them upon her hips in a gesture of umbrage so intense it belied her smallness of stature. “You really ought to mind your business, Alphinaud. You’re far too young to behave like such a doddering old busybody.”

“Tataru!” Alphinaud protested, his lower lip jutting out, and it took every onze of discipline Gisele possessed not to burst into laughter at it. 

“Minfilia would want Gisele to be happy,” Tataru said firmly. “And she would not want us at one another’s throats like a pack of wild imps.” Her eyes softened, and she relaxed her arms, gazing up at Gisele. “She would, you know. Oh, how she adored you. Whenever you ran off, on some mission or grand adventure, her eyes were ever fixed upon the door to the Rising Stones, waiting anxiously for your return. And...”

Gisele’s heart rose into her throat, and she swallowed hard, reaching up to grasp her pendant. 

Tataru sniffled, and brought her sleeve to her face, wiping it furiously. “I swore I would not cry again. I’m trying my best. Lord Haurchefant is so kind, and his people have been so generous. And seeing you so happy, Gisele, with him...it gives me hope, that the dawn’s light shall indeed shine once more.”

Alphinaud smiled a bit sadly. “Tis always darkest indeed before the Dawn, is it not?” he said. The slender youth rose to his feet then, wringing his hands with downcast eyes, before crossing the short distance to Gisele’s seat. 

“My friend, I have wronged you. Not merely with my careless words, but with my own selfishness. Tataru is right; you both were right. Betimes I  _ have _ viewed you as a weapon to be wielded, the Scions’ greatest weapon, to be deployed as one loads a cannon. So consumed with my grand design, with carrying on Grandfather’s legacy, that I scarce considered your feelings. Even now, after all my blind arrogance has wrought, I still think only of politics, and how you might be used. And it is no way to treat a comrade, much less a friend. I beg of you, Gisele, please forgive me.”

Wordlessly, Gisele beckoned him close, and she drew Alphinaud into a soft embrace. He tensed up, at first, but then wrapped his arms about her, clinging to her. 

“When I was nineteen, I believed I knew everything too,” Gisele said softly. “I, too, raised an army, with guile and blade and magic. Men and women flocked to my banner, for vengeance, for glory, for our homeland. By my word were kings made and undone, all to beat back the darkness which threatened to consume us all. But this was not what made me strong, Alphi--nor was my clever tongue, nor were all the tomes of lore I devoured within the Circle. None of that is what gave me the courage to do what was right, and needful, to see our land saved.”

“What, then, gave you such strength?” Alphinaud asked, trembling a little in her arms, and she felt his cheek grow damp against her neck.

“It was love,” Gisele replied, smiling. “Love, deep and abiding. It was what filled me, when I gazed upon dread eyes full of hate, and took up that fallen blade. It drove away the fear. I knew that the ones I love would carry on, even if should I not, and it was enough for me. And, mayhap...that is what our friends believed, in the Sultana’s Palace that night.”

Tataru nodded slowly. “I believe it too. And that is why we must carry on, for their sake. We must find the lost, and rebuild. I know we can, with Lord Haurchefant’s aid.”

With a gentle stroke of his hair, Gisele pulled away from Alphinaud, only enough to place firm hands upon his slender shoulders. “If the power one wields, whether it be spell or blade, or influence among men, a word spoken in counsel...if it is not wielded in love, my Alphi, then it is hollow, and bears no true purpose. Power without love shall not abide,” she said. “I forgive you, dear. And I would have you heed these words.”

Alphinaud nodded, wiping at his eyes with a sleeve. “Thank you, my friend. And truly...I could not begrudge you any happiness, not in so dire a time.”


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Gisele awakened to darkness, for the cavernous bed in Haurchefant’s private chamber was empty beside her, with its heavy drapes drawn. Like as not he was down in the courtyard, taking his morning exercises as was his wont, and did not wish to disturb her. But when Gisele tugged at the thickly braided cords, and opened the brocade to the morning light, she saw him leaning against the doorframe, full clad in his fine mail shirt, staring with a furrowed brow upon the missive clutched in his hands. 

“What is it?” she asked, already knowing in her heart with gravest certainty what it did portend. 

Haurchefant looked up from the letter, to meet her gaze. “It is done,” he said, folding the sheaf, to place it upon the mantle. 

Gisele nodded, and a knot of fear coiled itself in her belly like a writhing serpent, for the answer to the question forming upon her lips was something she also yet knew, but did not wish to hear. “Will you be escorting us?” she asked quietly, nonetheless. 

“Pray forgive me, my love. Would that I may, for I wish for nothing more. But my duties preclude it. With the Steel Vigil so occupied by Iceheart’s heretics, and with the loss of our wards, I cannot risk it. Mine eyes and shield must remain here, ever vigilant,” Haurchefant said. 

“I know. I would not keep you from your duties. I just...” Gisele sighed, burying her weary face within her hands for a long moment. Would that she did not have to leave him so bloody soon. 

When she looked up once more, Haurchefant stood at the foot of the bed, gazing down upon her. She untangled herself from beneath the covers, and crawled toward him upon her hands and knees. His smile was brighter than the sun, when he lowered his hands to her cheeks, and cradled her face within them. “You are my very heart, Gisele. And  _ nothing  _ shall ever keep me from you forever, my love. Not these accursed heretics, not their foul draconian masters, not the High Houses, not even my father. Do you trust me, in this?”

“In all things, Haurche,” Gisele said. 

“Then let the proof of my love wash over you once more, to hold you in the cold, until we are reunited,” he said, and parted her lips with his tongue. 

Gisele sunk back into the pillows, stretching within the warmth of sunlight gleaming upon her bronze skin, and Haurchefant reached behind the massive headboard, hoisting up a length of ebon velveteen. With the greatest care, he bound her slender wrists to the carved posts by turns, and slowly stripped himself of his armor, before climbing into the bed.

And then Haurchefant let the passion of his lips and tongue and fingers say what even his honeyed words could not, in heat and yearning. 

It was over far, far too soon. But the skywatchers marked only a few hours of respite, the calm before yet another storm, and so Gisele made ready with some haste. 

Alphinaud and Tataru were already awaiting her in the courtyard, bundled in thick woolen coats, hats, and gloves, all generously provided by the camp tradesmen—billed to Haurchefant, naturally. And it seemed the whole of Camp Dragonhead was there with them, within the courtyard, upon the ancient walls: knights, mercenaries, all who served were present to see them off. 

“Fare thee well, my heart,” Haurchefant said to her, his summer blue eyes brimming over, despite his own words. 

As Gisele could not help the tears forming in her eyes. “And you, my love,” she said, her voice faltering.

“Pray, do not look at me so,” Haurchefant said, smiling tenderly. “Tis only a brief parting. I swear to you, as soon as I am able, I shall fly to your side with such swiftness, you’d mark me an ebon chocobo!”

Gisele’s cheeks flushed with warmth, in spite of the cold, for Haurchefant lifted his gauntleted hands to them, brushing the sharp line of her fine bones with a leather-sheathed thumb; he leaned down, pressing his lips tenderly to her own.

“I love you, Gisele. With all my heart,” he said low, and fierce. “Go with my love, and my promise.”

Ever the chivalrous gentleman, he aided Gisele into her heavy coat of scarlet—by the sumptuary laws of Ishgard, Fortemps crimson. 

“May the Fury watch over your steps,” he said, louder, then. Haurchefant smiled at her companions. “All of you. Do not doubt that I shall do everything in my power to stymie your pursuers, and aid you in the cause of justice.”

“Halone’s aegis be upon you as well, my lord,” Alphinaud said, bowing. “Your hospitality is beyond reproach, and the Scions shall always remember that House Fortemps yet stood with us in our darkest hour, when we were forsaken by all others.”

“You are a good man, and a better friend, Lord Haurchefant. This is a debt that cannot he repaid. But we will try, I swear it,” Tataru said, with a light sniffle.

“Go then, my weary friends. May the Dawn’s light shine once more upon Eorzea, bright as a Coerthan watchfire, sparked anew by Ishgardian flint!” Haurchefant declared. One last time, he turned to Gisele. “And may you walk ever in the light of the Crystal, daughter of Hydaelyn,” he said.

Gisele did not trust herself to speak, moved to near tears again and trembling as she was, and so she went to him, standing on tiptoe, and kissed him deeply.   


* * *

Fate, it would seem, was naught but a circle. For once more, the last of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn set forth through the western gate of Camp Dragonhead, led by Gisele Surana, out of death and betrayal and into the promise of hope, to find the lost, rebuild what was lost. Once more they walked the long road, one paved with uncertainty, and shrouded by darkness.

The Gates of Judgement stood before them, towering in all their grim and foreboding steel. But she was not afraid, when she passed through them, waved through by the guardsman who kept vigil. Though Tataru clung to her hand, and Alphinaud shuddered beneath his coat, she strode ever forward. 

The Steps of Faith stretched out long before them, in all their broken glory, but Gisele was not afraid. Though the winds howled about them, swirling up from the vast and endless abyss of storming clouds they crossed upon this narrow bridge, she did not fear.

In the distance, Ishgard beckoned, its towering spires of stone breaking through the clouds, the end of their long road. And the Father of Dragons spoke woe within her ears, of death and sorrow, but Gisele was not afraid. For though she was bereft of her Mother’s blessing, and forsaken by all the world, she carried with her the love of her Silver Fuller, brave and true. 

And as she ventured forth to meet her destiny within walls of stone ancient and besieged, Gisele cast violet eyes Heavensward, dreaming only of him. 


End file.
